


A Table For Two

by ForensicSpider98



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ableism, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Cuban Lance (Voltron), F/F, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gay Shiro (Voltron), Japanese Shiro (Voltron), Keith (Voltron)-centric, Korean Keith (Voltron), Lance (Voltron) Has ADHD, Lonely Keith (Voltron), M/M, Mechanic Keith (Voltron), Orphan Keith (Voltron), Orphan Shiro (Voltron), Outgoing Lance (Voltron), Pilot Lance (Voltron), Rich Lance (Voltron), Sad Shiro (Voltron), Shy Keith (Voltron), Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Waiter Keith (Voltron), klance, mostly - Freeform, omg there's a tag for that!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:26:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 78,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForensicSpider98/pseuds/ForensicSpider98
Summary: Keith is a mechanic by day, waiter by night with a problem. Every single Friday, a gorgeous, charismatic gentleman frequents his restaurant with his girlfriend. Mr. Lance McClain is perfect. He smiles, he's polite, he's deeply compassionate and Keith is weak and lonely.So what is Keith to do when the only person he's ever been more than physically attracted to is brutally snubbed right in front of him?He tries to make it better. It's a selfless effort. It's selfish. It's complicated.





	1. Dessert

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who finally bothered to plan out a fic?! It's ya girl, Meredith! 
> 
> Please be sure to leave a question, comment, concern, profanity, or threat on my life below!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't give me time to change my mind. Let me indulge in us instead.

When Lance enters the restaurant, he’s concerned. He knows he should trust his girlfriend. That’s what you’re supposed to do in a relationship. Trust. But something about the “ill be l8t dont w8t up” text troubles him. Then again, the whole eight-month debacle troubles him. The fact that he’s still trying troubles him. He doesn’t want to disappoint. He doesn't want to be alone.

“Table for two?” The hostess asks before glancing up. When she does, her smile widens. “Oh! Welcome, Mr. McClain. Your usual table is reserved.” The hostess, Romelle, grabs two menus. They aren’t needed, but he’ll read one anyway to still his hands. “If you’ll follow me, sir.”

Lance surrenders his coat to Check with a smile and a thank you before following Romelle to his table, the one he always gets with a view of the snowy street. He loves the view. He loves to watch the smiling people go by. “Your waiter will be here shortly, Mr. McClain. Please, enjoy your meal.”

Nodding, Lance gives the woman a quiet thank you as he takes his seat, unbuttoning his suit jacket. He pulls a cheap pen out of his trouser pocket, indulging his impulses in the absence of his girlfriend. He begins taking it apart and putting it back together over and over, rolling it through his fingers, spinning it on the table. He knows he isn’t supposed to; it’s annoying, embarrassing, childish. Were his girlfriend here, he wouldn’t dare, but in this moment, he’s alone, free to give in to his impulses. He glances out the window, reconstructing the pen by muscle memory as he watches for his girlfriend to walk by.

Lance is tired, if he’s honest with himself, nearing the end of his rope. He’s tired of the song and dance and the “oh so you mean ____” when that’s not what he means and she knows it; he’s tired of struggling with something and being laughed at and called a fool instead of helped; he’s tired of second-guessing everything that comes out of her mouth and second-guessing everything that he says, everything that he is; he’s tired of being judged and ridiculed for something he can’t help; he’s tired of feeling so incredibly alone even while lying right next to her. He’s just tired, he’s just tired. He’s fine, he’s just tired.

“I can bring you some paper, sir. If you’d like.”

Lance starts at the voice, eyes refocusing to see his usual waiter, Keith, reflected in the glass of the window. He turns to the young Korean man who always smiles for him. Well, Lance assumes he’s Korean. He thinks so, but he wouldn’t introduce the man as such. Lance likes Keith, probably more than an attached man should, though Lance would never stray from his girlfriend. He likes to consider himself an honorable man, if a bit flawed.

Honorable man or not, Lance likes Keith very much. He’s held several small conversations with the young man, little more than pleasantries really, but he seems nice, if a mite shy, a tad quiet, on occasion impatient with other patrons. His girlfriend finds the man too forward, too open with Lance. Lance finds he doesn’t care. He finds he enjoys conversations built on something other than disparaging comments on his behavior, intelligence, and existence in general.

Keith’s glad to see Mr. McClain. He’ll never admit it to anyone, but he looks forward to seeing the blue-eyed Latino every week. Friday is a reprieve, a relief, a weekly highlight on his lonely, miserable life. The man is beautiful, casting a soft, sunny glow on the grimy, grey midwinter. He’s polite and kind, even when Keith can’t bring himself to act happy to be there. On those days, he instead gets a larger tip and a friendly note on the back of the receipt despite the jealous quips of his loathsome girlfriend. Not having known much kindness in his life, Keith often finds himself measuring out his weeks, days, hours, minutes in increments based on when he’ll next be graced with that sunlit smile. It’s problematic, to say the least.

Mr. McClain looks down at the pen in his hands with guilt, and Keith’s smile grows softer, eyebrows lifting slightly in sympathy, concern. “Apologies,” the man murmurs. “I’ll put it away. It’s ill behavior, I know.”

“No, don’t!” Keith blushes, knowing he’s out of line. But he loves those perfect hands almost as much as he hates this job, hates the position he’s in. He sighs, avoiding the man’s blue gaze. “It’s not like you’re hurting anyone.” Mr. McClain’s hands slow anyway, though Keith is glad to see his movement hasn’t ceased entirely. He _loves_ those hands, yearns for those hands. They aren’t for him to know. “Don’t worry about it. You’re still our favorite regular.” He offers Mr. McClain a crooked smile.

It’s busy tonight, with a large, extended family taking up the long table. They produce an unbelievable amount of noise and mess, disturbing the other patrons. The children alone have spilled several cups of water, spreading across the tables and onto the wood floor. Mr. McClain seems to have noticed, his gaze almost chilly as he applies laser focus to the group.

“They brought their children to a five-star restaurant,” Mr. McClain murmurs.

“Yes,” Keith says, maintaining that smile. It’s easy when he’s standing here. It’s never easy; it hurts, in fact. It’s complicated. “And it’s late and they don’t know how to behave.”

“My condolences,” Mr. McClain says with a sad smile.

“It’s not so bad.” _Now that you’re here._ “Can I get you something to drink? I assume you’re waiting on your girlfriend.”

“I’ll take some wine, please. I’ll leave it to you to choose which one. I trust you.” Mr. McClain’s smile seems tired, and there’s a certain frustration underneath his polite veneer. Keith nods, absolutely ignoring the warmth in his cheeks at Lance’s words. He hears someone shout “waiter” from the disagreeable family behind him and sighs.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Mr. McClain gives another smile, this one understanding. He nods, waving the pen in his hand as a farewell. Keith likes to think the man is sorry to lose his company.

At the long table, a mother with bleached hair and too much makeup snaps her fingers at him. He forces a smile onto his face. “Yes, ma’am. What can I do for you?”

“We need another bottle of wine,” the woman says, not bothering with manners. “And we’d each like a tiramisu.” Keith jots down 14 tiramisus and a bottle of- “And also the check.” Keith forces himself to maintain his smile, wishing he could just sit and talk with Mr. McClain for a bit. Or anyone; really anyone will do, as long as they can be nice and do most of the actual talking part. He’s just lonely. “And if you could hurry it up, the kids need to be home soon.”

Keith nods, as eager to see the children leave as she is to take them. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll be back shortly.” Keith heads off to the wine cellar, reluctantly bringing another bottle to the long table before retrieving a bottle of red for Mr. McClain, setting two glasses on the table. “Is this acceptable? It pairs well with your usual order.”

It doesn’t pair at all well with his girlfriend’s and both men know it. Keith knows this because he’s been told, and Mr. McClain knows this because the man knows how to drink wine. He knows how to smell it and drink it and all those things Keith will never have to know and will never have the opportunity to learn.

“It’s perfect, thank you,” Mr. McClain murmurs. The man glances out the window, the worried furrow to his brow only deepening. Keith’s heart goes out to him. Lance McClain deserves better. He’s kind and patient, if on occasion a bit selfish, and Keith just _knows_ the man must suspect _some_ thing, yet he treats Keith with respect anyway despite the fact that he is in no way required to do so. He wonders how he got to this point, where basic human decency seems a novelty, a weekly luxury he so desperately looks forward to, clings to with every ounce of his love-starved heart.

Keith wants to help. He wants to give something back to the man before him. He has little enough give, but what he has left he’s willing to share with Mr. Lance McClain.

“She’ll be here. Don’t you worry.” Mr. McClain looks up at him, eyes large and full of sunlight and Keith sighs, averting his gaze, trying not to scowl. That woman doesn’t deserve him at all. He can think of several things she _does_ deserve, but none of them are to be mentioned in polite company.

“I was under the impression that you despised my girlfriend.” Keith swallows, hands faltering as he pours his favorite patron a glass of wine. He’s right. The entirely undeserving woman in question is shallow as a puddle and not half as pretty, though, admittedly, Keith’s perception is geared heavily in Mr. McClain’s favor.

“It doesn’t matter what I think of her. She matters to you, and if she has more than one brain cell, she’ll be here. Anyone would be.” Lance’s eyes widen and he feels warmth spread across his cheekbones. No one has ever spoken of him so positively, not with such vindication.

He’s had suspicions about his waiter for some time, but he’s confident now. Lance isn’t quite certain what to do, what to say, but before he can react (aside from gape like a fool), Keith excuses himself to the kitchens, pale pink spreading over alabaster skin. Lance almost manages a smile, finding the shyness as endearing as the honesty. He’d be lying if ever he said he doesn’t like quiet authenticity the man carries with him. It’s problematic; it isn’t. He’s a good man, a loyal man; he’s straying. It’s complicated.

Lance turns his gaze back to the window in time to see the first flakes begin to fall. In the glass, he sees only a soft pair of monolid eyes, indeterminate in color, and a cherry blossom pink smile. He wonders what it feels like to be a part of something genuine. He wishes the clouds would part so he can see the stars.

Keith hates himself all the way to the kitchen, nearly colliding with Shay and her tray of cuisine for tables four, five, and seven. “Sorry, Shay! Hunk, I need fourteen tiramisu for the long table like, ASAP.” Hunk, the chef, groans.

“Are you kidding me, man? That’s like, almost all of our tiramisu! There won’t be any for us when we finally escape!”

“Please? I’m dying here. These people are assholes and there’s only so much I can take.” Keith does his utmost not to whine. Truly. Regrettably, his patience -of which he has little to begin with- is wearing thin.

“What about your special guest? Isn’t he here tonight?” Hunk pulls a tray of tiramisu out of the fridge and begins slicing it (a little smaller than usual). Keith doesn’t even blink at Hunk’s line of questioning. Hunk knows everything, though he isn’t certain how.

“Yeah and his girlfriend isn’t.”

“Congrats.”

“Hunk. Don’t. That’s just mean.” Hunk turns to him, large brown eyes full of amusement, affection. “Also I kind of said something...too nice? Like, I was a little too…”

“‘I don’t matter; you matter’?” Hunk asks. “Like you only do with people you care about?” Keith groans, hiding his heated face in his hands while he waits for Hunk to put the tiramisu on plates.

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

“What did he do?” Hunk eyes the man, curious. He’s been hearing Keith’s offhand mentions of Mr. Lance McClain for months now. Not that it means anything, of course. It means a lot, actually, but he knows Keith would prefer to leave well enough alone. Hunk likes Keith. The guy’s shy and awkward and impatient, but Hunk’s discovered the man’s actually very sweet, very warm, very lonely beneath the deceptively cold outer shell. Hunk wants to be his friend. He just isn’t sure how to reach the guy.

“He...blushed,” Keith mumbles. Hunk watches with fondness as a dusting of pink creeps along Keith’s delicate cheekbones, glowing against his porcelain skin. He’s only ever seen it on Friday nights, save one or two in between. “It was...it was really cute.” Keith smiles bashfully down at his shoes, hugging his tray to his chest. Hunk shakes his head. His pal is hopeless, his shy little blush endearing, adorable. “I am in so much trouble, Hunk. I’m too weak for this.”

“Yes, you are. Now, I want you to look directly at the long table while you bring this single slice of tiramisu to your beloved Mr. McClain on the house.” Keith opens his mouth to protest, but Hunk isn’t having it. “No, no. Don’t argue. Just do it. Do it for both of us, Keith.”

Keith sighs, cracking a smile, and puts the dessert on his tray. There’s no arguing with Hunk. He’s kinder to Keith than most everyone Keith comes into contact with. He feels a need, a desire to please the man. He wants to be Hunk’s friend. He just doesn’t know how.

As he exits the kitchen, Keith nearly runs into his manager, Iverson.

“Sorry, sir!” he gasps, immediately bracing himself for the onslaught.

“Kogane. What did you do to Mr. McClain?” Iverson glares at him.

“Sir?” Keith shifts the tray slightly, wrapping his free arm around himself for comfort. He hates this. He hates it.

“He looks damned miserable,” the older man growls. “I thought you liked the guy.” Keith sighs, inspecting a small scratch on the wooden floor.

“I haven’t done anything. He came like that.” He elects to disregard the rest of Iverson’s inquiry.

“Then do your job and fix it. Consider making an attempt to be more pleasant,” Iverson snarls. Keith just sighs again. It’s tiring. He isn’t sure how it happened or what he’s doing wrong, but Keith has developed a reputation for being outwardly unfriendly. His hurt must show because Iverson relents, gesturing with a jerk of the head for Keith to proceed.

Keith takes a deep breath and approaches the table. The Latin adonis is still staring out the window. Keith notes the slight tint of pink still gracing the delicate cheekbones, dancing over his caramel skin. Despite his current state, he smiles.

“Your smile is sad today,” Mr. McClain murmurs, still staring out the window, at the reflection in the window. Keith gently sets the dessert down on the table. “Are you alright?”

“You don’t have to talk to me,” Keith murmurs back, refilling the man’s glass. He’s in no real hurry to attend to his other guests. “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Would you prefer if I didn’t talk to you?” Lance’s brows furrow. Has he not begun to form a sort of friendship with Keith? His feelings may not be to the depth that Keith’s seem to be, but he does enjoy the man-

A flicker of movement out the window catches his eye and he turns to see...his girlfriend. She’s beautiful, with long, blond hair tied up high on her head and dark violet eyes. She’s slender like a dancer, lithe, muscular, graceful, like liquid silk. She’s arm-in-arm with another man.

The air stops moving. Lance stops breathing. He knows they’ve been having trouble. The pen freezes on the table. He knows she sometimes finds him frustrating. His breath halts halfway out of his lungs. He knows his attention has wandered a few times at this very table. His teeth clench, jaw tightening. He knows he apologized, tried to make it right. He’s tried so hard. His hands curl on the table. He knows he trusted her. The snow is still coming down, uncaring, unfeeling. She turns and looks at him, meets his gaze with a level stare. She keeps walking. The snow keeps drifting down, down, down.

Something in Mr. McClain’s countenance, in the space between them shifts. Maybe it’s because Keith has witnessed Mr. McClain’s humiliation, the coldness that has seeped into the air around him. Maybe it’s the icy stare the man has just received, but Keith wants to do something to warm the air.

Keith watches the emotions ripple over Mr. McClain’s features: hurt, sadness, bitterness, anger. Anger is gelid, frigidly cold, blue eyes searing, burning with frost. Keith shivers. Rage shouldn’t look this good, and yet he finds himself terrified, enraptured all at once. Rage shouldn’t do this to him. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t.

“WAITER!” Mr. McClain and Keith both jump and Keith barely suppresses a roll of his eyes. Mr. McClain gives the woman a filthy look and Keith can’t help his confusion. Mr. McClain shouldn’t be caring about him in the least.

“I’d better take care of them so they’ll leave,” Keith mumbles, showing a fragment of his real self. “Don’t you go anywhere. I’ll take care of you later, alright?”

Lance swallows hard and nods, baffled by the compassion in Keith’s eyes. Lance is not emotionally prepared to deal with someone who puts others before himself. He isn’t prepared for tonight. As Keith hustles off back to the kitchen, Lance turns back to window to watch the snow still falling, falling, falling.

Keith’s hands are shaking as he and Shay load all of the tiramisu onto trays and pass them around the long table. He’s not a selfish man, but his anger isn’t selfless. It’s born of his jealousy, his loneliness. That the woman would cast Mr. Lance McClain aside for someone else makes her no more than a reprehensible fool. If she only knew what Keith would give to sit where she’d sat nearly every Friday for eight months. If she only knew the mistake she’d just made. But again, Keith’s narrative is undeniably biased.

It’s another thirty minutes before the family leaves, the longest thirty minutes of Keith’s life. He can feel Mr. McClain’s eyes on him as he serves the few tables left, together with Shay. When he catches sight of the long-legged man, he’s fiddling with his empty wine glass, seemingly in the depths of contemplation. Keith goes in to have a word with Hunk.

“Hey, man.” The kitchen is mostly clean already.

“Well, you don’t look happy,” Hunk says with a frown. “His girl not show?”

“No.” That’s all Keith’s willing to say. Words are exhausting. “Make his usual order, okay? At the very least, he can take it home.” Hunk nods. Iverson stomps in, all loud footsteps and menace.

“There a reason Mr. McClain is still moping?” Unspoken accusations drip from the man’s voice and Keith turns away, glaring at nothing in particular.

“Taking care of it,” Keith grumbles. He loathes his job and his treatment. “We can clean up. Any mess he makes, I’ll deal with.”

“Fine,” Iverson growls. “Everyone I don’t like, clean this shit up and get out!” There’s a flurry of movement as Hunk’s underlings and the other waiters begin to scurry about, hastily cleaning so they can leave. Keith, as head waiter, Romelle as hostess, Hunk, Shay, and Iverson will stay and eat together as always. Keith will sit at the table and say nothing, save if Hunk or Romelle should address him. They will, once or twice, out of pity.

He just wants to go home, sleep, check on his brother. Is Shiro okay? Is he sleeping? It’s been days since he’s slept. Iverson talks about how he must be sick of his brother. The truth is that he misses him dearly. He hasn’t seen him in eight months, not really, not at all, except for fleeting moments, hours, maybe a day where he manages to pick himself up off the bloody asphalt.

Lance watches the staff scuttle about, warped in the side of his empty glass, twirling the object in his hand. He watches a young woman assist Keith in mopping up spilled water on the long table. Keith thanks her, calling her Shay. Lance commits her name to his memory. Within minutes, the tables are cleared, the floors are swept and mopped, Lance is alone. He’s never been so alone. The dessert in front of him remains untouched. He’s had enough. He’s tolerated eight months and he’s had enough.

An indeterminate age later, a porcelain hand, cool, slightly calloused, gently coaxes Lance’s glass to the table. Lance watches wine splash into the bottom, swirling thick and dark, another echo of the luxury that hangs like silk threads from his arms and legs, tangling him up like an insect, every struggle only tightening the strands. He heaves a tired sigh. There are many sighs going around tonight, he thinks.

“Join you for dinner?” Keith asks. Lance bites at his lip, brown fingers finding the pen again, rolling it back and forth on the tabletop. He nods at the blue instrument, too weary to speak. Keith’s footsteps fade and he’s left alone with his pen and the snowflakes drifting down the surface of his glass.

Keith returns ten minutes later, bringing nothing with him but a soft smile and two plates of food, one of a simple pasta dish, the other of Lance’s favorite _osso bucco_ and _risotto alla Milanese,_ specially prepared, tailored to his needs. Lance tells himself it doesn’t mean anything. He orders the same meal every time he comes here.

“Should I bring out a fresh bottle of wine?” Lance takes the bottle and fills the glass sitting across from his. He doesn't miss how Keith blushes. Lance wonders that the man derives enough pleasure from such a simple gesture. It saddens him for reasons he can't articulate.

“No, thank you. It’s best if you don’t. I have to walk home tonight. It’s still more than half full anyway.” Keith hums in agreement, and Lance watches him take up the salad fork in the corner of his eye. For some reason, this amuses him.

“What’s funny?” Keith’s dark eyes are large, his mouth held in tiny frown. The man’s confusion is endearing. It isn’t. It’s nothing. It’s complicated. Lance’s smile threatens to widen nevertheless and he does his utmost to suppress it. He shakes his head.

“I’m not certain, to be honest. That is, however, the salad fork.” Lance lifts his gaze from his pen just in time to see Keith’s face fall, pasta halfway to his mouth. “Your speech pattern is different as well.”

“Look,” Keith says, carefully taming his scowl into a frown. “I’m not some upper-class trust fund like you, okay? I don’t know which fork to use and I live paycheck to paycheck. If that bothers you, I’ll leave. Also, if you find it funny.”

Keith huffs in frustration. He’s so tired of the people here. He thinks Lance is different, but he isn’t sure. All he knows is that his brother is still unemployed, his radiator is probably still broken, the snow is only coming down harder, and he hopes Lance’s now probably, hopefully ex-girlfriend is lost out in the mess. He also knows that the man across from him can ask for anything, and the answer will be “yes”. It’s a problem. It’s not. It’s complicated.

“Apologies,” Lance murmurs. “I suppose I am somewhat ignorant as to the lives and struggles of others. I tend to be isolated within my own class, though this hasn't always been so. However, the dinner fork is bigger and so facilitates bigger, incredibly rude bites.”

Lance’s blue eyes sparkle with a hint of mischief, lips curling up into a crooked smile. The corner of Keith’s mouth twitches and, after clearing the salad fork, he swaps the two. Lance gives a soft laugh as Keith takes the biggest bite he can manage. Keith’s smile widens. He can’t help it. It’s nice, not being frowned at.

“So,” Keith says around the mouthful of food. “Are you gonna eat, or just watch me shove food in my mouth?” Lance obediently starts in on his risotto, registering a sudden lightness in his chest. There’s new space for air, new space for feeling. He wonders how long that space had been filled and what heavy thing had filled it. “There you go. Now, it occurs to me-” Keith takes a moment to swallow. He’s embarrassing himself, he knows, but he hadn’t eaten lunch and he’s been hungry most of the day. “-that you’ve been here almost every Friday for the last eight months and yet I still know almost nothing about Lance McClain.”

“Lance McClain is a rather broad topic,” the Latino murmurs, starting in on the veal. “Perhaps you could narrow it down for me?” Lance looks up at Keith from under his lashes and Keith’s reminded of just how weak he is. His gaze fixates on the freckle at the inside corner of Lance’s left eye. Keith would love to kiss that little spot, brush it with his lips, give it the respect that every inch of Lance McClain’s body deserves.

Keith swallows hard, mouth watering. _Weak._

“Well...I assume you’re Latino.” Keith blows a lock of jet black hair out of his eyes. “How does a Latino have blue eyes?”

“Cubans are quite diverse, in general. As for me myself, my grandfather was of Scottish descent. Hence, the surname ‘McClain’.” Lance reminds himself he’s supposed to be eating, chewing and swallowing politely. “Now, I assume you’re Korean. How does a Korean come to have...What color _are_ your eyes anyway?” Right now, they’re amethyst, glittering at him in such a way that he’s terrified. He’s excited. He’s on his way to making a huge mistake. That foolish part of himself that everyone tells Lance he should ignore wonders if it might be the best mistake he could ever make.

Keith takes another bite, hesitant. He can feel the others watching them, can feel Iverson being hard on him, Hunk disappointed in his table manners, Shay and Romelle just watching his world stop and spin out of control simultaneously just sitting across from Lance McClain.

“I’m half Korean. As for my eye color, I don’t know. Sometimes navy, sometimes gray, sometimes purple. Depends, I guess.” Keith takes another bite of pasta. “I don’t speak Korean, though. I do speak Japanese.” He regrets the words the moment they leave his mouth. Now come questions with painful answers and histories he’s spent the last six years of his life trying to bury.

“Really?” Lance’s face lights up. “I’m fluent in Spanish. It’s actually my first language, but I learned English when I was six, so I don’t remember a time when I was only monolingual.”

Keith feels his smile growing as Lance talks. The man speaks with his hands, the wrists and long fingers moving with all the grace and delicacy of a ballerina. His eyes sparkle like sunlight on a summer pond. He throws his entire being into his words, emotions flowing across his features like water.

Keith grins, meal forgotten, as the man heads off on a tangent, recalling teasing at some academy and years spent trying to hide his accent before his friend Allura helped him get over it. Keith resists the spark of anger at Lance’s recount. The idea that he might never have heard that accent hurts him.

“Oh. I’m sorry. I’ve been quite inconsiderate. It’s your turn to speak.”

Lance looks up to see Keith smiling around the rim of his glass. The heat behind his midnight eyes flickers, feeding warmth into Lance’s bones. The dark hair framing his face combined with his pale skin gives him an ethereal countenance, the sharpness of his features and soft pink lips conferring an effeminate delicacy that leaves Lance in contemplation, leaves him in guilt.

“Don’t be sorry. I don’t usually talk much anyway.” Keith, oblivious to Lance’s metal waxing, takes another bite of his food. “What do you normally do? Aside from talk,” Keith says with a grin.

Lance’s face warms and he ducks his head to try and hide it. Keith doesn’t seem bothered or annoyed. His eyes don’t roll when Lance talks for too long and he doesn’t frown when Lance waves his hands around. Instead, Keith smiles, listens, interacts. He doesn’t just sit there in silence waiting for Lance to shut up. “You first,” he mumbles. Keith shakes his head, swallowing another mouthful of pasta.

“Nope. I wanna hear about parties with tons of naked girls. Or guys, if you can manage.” Lance chuckles. He’s really beginning to enjoy himself.

“I’m no Tony Stark, I’m afraid. I don’t go to parties often. As for stories about naked men and women, I am a gentleman. I keep my lovers’ secrets.” Lance sees the moment where the full implications of his words hit his companion. A tiny fire of hope licks at the edges of the man’s pupils, and boldness rears its head. “Though I should mention that I’m not opposed to keeping a few more.” Keith’s eyes grow even wider, and he sits back against his chair, dinner abandoned, the pink in his cheeks deepening to red. Lance takes his blushing silence as an opportunity to take another bite of his meal.

“Let’s see. I’m an heir to McClain Aerospace Technologies, but I’m the youngest of five siblings, so it’s unlikely that I’ll inherit anything as far as the business goes. As you can probably guess, we specialize in aircraft technology. Oftentimes, we partner with NASA.”

Lance pauses to watch everyone else clear out. An older man growls at Keith to turn off the lights and lock up when he’s done flirting with patrons. Lance watches his companion’s face for a long moment, admiring the way color rose from beneath his pale skin like, well, roses. He hopes his companion finds him more than pretty, hopes there’s more to it than that.

Keith is mortified, displeased to be called out in such a manner, his motives so grossly underestimated. His only aim is to lighten Lance’s heart. It isn’t his fault if their food is cold and only half-finished after an hour. It isn’t his fault he’s enjoying himself so much, enjoying the company, enjoying not being alone, not being lonely.

“Most of the time, my duty is to walk around and look pretty for our researchers. People tell me I have a way of lifting others’ spirits. Whether that’s true or not, I have a very marketable face, so I often find myself in front of people, managing deals and forming friendships and whatnot.” Keith registers something like boredom, a hint of frustration. “But in addition to that, I occasionally fly planes. Nothing special, but-”

“Wait, you fly?” Keith’s interest is immediately piqued. “That’s so cool!” Lance grins, relief evident on his face. Keith wonders if Lance thought he might not be interested in the machinations of those in power. He isn’t really, but he’s interested in Lance. He’s interested in flight, too. When he was still small, Keith had dreamed of being an astronaut.

“Yes, I graduated high school with my Associates’ degree and earned my Bachelors’ at MIT. Majored in aerospace engineering with a minor in liberal arts. I also had to do two-hundred fifty flight hours, but now I’m a certified pilot.” Keith’s eyes widen. This man isn’t just pretty; he’s smart. The Cubano’s smile fades. “I don’t get to fly very often. Mostly I just show up, look pretty, act friendly, and shake hands with powerful people.” Then the smile’s back. “It’s nothing too terrible, though. I’ve got my family, and they keep me happy enough. And Allura. She’s my best friend.”

Keith tears his gaze away from the glorious view to their finally empty plates, contemplating the thinly veiled frustrations of a man who, by all outward appearances, has everything. Frustration looks good on Lance McClain. There’s a flicker of heat in his eyes, lapping at the edges of the brilliant blues. It’s late -very late- and Keith suspects they ought to part ways sooner rather than later, lest he make a mistake.

“Let me walk you home,” Keith murmurs. “We can talk more on the way.”

Lance hums softly, leaning forward over his laced fingers, elbows propped on the table. “I think...I think we should go for a drink. Only if it’s agreeable to you of course.” Those blue eyes never waver, holding Keith's gaze, simmering with hunger.

Keith takes a deep, shuddering breath. He remembers his time in elementary school, learning about colors. _Blue is a cold color, like water or ice._ Sitting here now, blue is heat, warm and welcoming even in the chill that’s followed Keith around as long as he can remember. Weak. He’s weak. Keith is weak and Lance is perfect.

He should look away. He should say no. He should walk this man home and they should part ways at the door like friends and nothing more. He won’t. He’s not certain he could if he tried. The awful truth is that Keith is weak and lonely and sad, and just this once he’d like a genuinely bittersweet memory to take with him when he wakes up tomorrow to walk his brother to therapy.

His brother; his brother will be furious. Well, not furious. He’ll be disappointed in him, that he let his impulsive, reckless, self-destructive tendencies get the best of him so easily. That’s fine. Keith will be disappointed too, come morning. Whether he’ll be disappointed in himself or in the half-empty bed the morning will surely bring, he isn’t sure. He assumes he’ll be disappointed in both. Shiro will be disappointed in both.

“There’s a place on the corner, only a little ways down. I know the guy who runs it. He’ll let us stay as long as we want.” Lance’s lips curl upward, knowing and clever, and a shiver runs through Keith’s body. Lance McClain is dangerous.

“You’ll have to lead the way, I’m afraid.” Keith rises from the table without hesitation, abandoning the table and its fixings to be dealt with tomorrow. Lance giggles, amused by his eagerness, and takes Keith’s arm as he turns off the last of the lights. Keith guides him to coat check and Lance leaves some cash behind for the clerk. He feels guilty that he hadn’t given it to the gentleman earlier.

Lance pulls on his heavy coat and helps Keith into his jacket. It’s a simple gesture, something expected, but it’s something no one’s ever done for Keith and he’s never had an opportunity to do for someone else. It’s a funny thing, but Keith finds himself wondering whether Lance might be willing to do other things for him. If maybe, just for tonight, someone aside from his brother might want to do something more than tolerate his existence. He doesn’t need it, of course. He just thinks it might be nice to have someone who’s not his brother do something for him. He tugs the worn fingerless gloves onto his hands, enjoying the feel of the leather on his palms.

He gets his answer moments later when Lance holds the door for him, waiting patiently and smiling while he locks it, and sweetly offers his arm. Keith claims it willingly, ignoring the warmth in his cheeks, ignoring the squirm of guilt in what he’s doing. He can have this. Just this once, he can have this.

Outside, Keith steers Lance around piles of snow disguised as gray sludge, the flakes still flying through the air. Lance tilts his head back to watch.

“Is it wrong that I feel liberated?” Lance murmurs. Keith guides the gentleman’s shining shoes around another gray pile. He picks up his pace a little, wanting to get them out of the intensifying wind.

“Were you not happy?” Keith asks. “Didn’t she make you happy?”

“Mnh. At first. She was pretty and she liked to have fun. But she didn’t like my hands. She didn’t like me to talk. I think...I think that to her, I was an uncooperative accessory.” They walk a few minutes in silence. Keith takes his eyes off the sidewalk long enough to see a snowflake drift down to kiss Lance’s cold-bitten cheekbone, sinking into his sun-kissed skin.

“I did try, you know. I tried to keep from fidgeting. I tried to maintain my reticence. I tried to to come off as nothing but an intelligent accessory. But I like to talk and I use my hands to do it. I like people and I like myself.” Lance sighs. “After awhile, being happy took work and I grew tired.” Keith contemplates his words. “I’m still tired,” the other man murmurs, watching a cloud of mist rise from his lips and fade into the night.

“I don’t know how you’re supposed to feel now, but you should never feel like there’s a part of yourself you have to hide. I’d wager that’s something you know as well as I.” Lance’s lips turn upwards a little farther and he exhales through his mouth, breath rising through the air, carrying troubles and hurts with it.

“Smiling shouldn’t take effort,” Lance murmurs.

“Is it taking effort right now?”

“No, it is not.” Lance’s smile widens.

“Good.” Relief floods Keith, purging his worry. The light in Curtis’ front window shuts off, but Keith disregards the message. “We’re here. Let’s get a drink!”

“Okay!” Lance skips along beside Keith, happy to be there, happy to be feeling happy.

“Hey, Curtis.” Keith swings open the door to the bar to a squeak of protest from the owner, the only person in the bar.

“Dammit, Keith. I was just about to bail.” The dark-skinned man sighs. “Well, you’re here now, so shut the door. Jesus, if Shiro knew you were out in this, he’d probably cry. Does he know you’re still out? Who’s this?”

A pair of ice blue eyes turn to Lance, like stars in the dark. It’s striking, like his strong features. He’d be intimidating, if not for the laughter in his gaze and the smile he wears like a badge of honor. The man trips as he comes around the counter, almost knocking over a bar stool.

“This is Lance. He eats at Garrison’s every Friday.” Curtis’s eyes widen. “He’s had a rough day. Thought I might see about making it a little better.”

“Very selfless of you,” Curtis deadpans. Lance bites his lip to keep from laughing. “Listen, I’m gonna turn in. Drinks on the house. Don’t break anything and lock the door when you leave. If you’re still here when I wake up tomorrow around noon, I’m drawing dicks on your faces.” Lance likes Curtis. Curtis laughs with his eyes, with his voice. He brightens a room and lightens Lance’s feet.

Upstairs, Curtis sends a quick message to Shiro.

 **Curtis:** Hey, so if Keith comes home tonite, he’s probs gonna have someone with him

 **Shiro:** ???

 **Curtis:** he’s cute. Latino. Names lance

 **Shiro:** Wait. Are you sure?

 **Curtis:** yeah. Keith introduced him. Y?

 **Shiro:** He’s only been casually mentioning him for months.

 **Curtis:** Holy shit!

 **Shiro:** Holy shit!

Curtis grins. He wants to talk more, to call Shiro, perhaps to visit him, but he doesn’t dare. He doesn’t want to overstep. Shiro is still hurting, he knows. So he’ll wait, and he’ll be there, even if he never gets a chance. He still wants to help.

Lance guides Keith to the bar, helping the smaller man out of his jacket. Keith can’t help the pleased color rising in his cheeks, blossoming, betraying him. Lance’s own smile just softens, warms the longer Keith gazes at him. Lance is summer in December. He’s the siren and the song and the sunlight on the water and Keith just wants to _drown_.

“So what do you do aside from pilot and look pretty?” Keith asks. “Rum and coke? Or do you want something else?”

“Rum and coke is fine. I thought we were going to talk about you.” Keith shifts his feet, staring fixedly at the bottle in his hands, trying to avoid his own history. “Alright. When I’m not working, I study business. I purchase textbooks and study them. I’m not going to inherit MCAST, so… Sometimes, I entertain the idea of doing something else. I’m unsure as to what, but I-I don’t want to be known as ‘the fifth child’, ‘the third son’. I’m more than that.”

Keith nods, sliding a rum and coke over the bar and moving around to sit next to his companion. He sees Lance’s frustration more clearly now. It sits in the downturn of his mouth, hangs from his contracted eyebrows, burns deep in his eyes. Frustration looks good on him. Very good.

“Now it’s your turn, Keith. You can’t avoid it any longer. I know you’re a waiter, but what more than that?” Lance takes a sip from his glass and Keith follows suit. “I want to know how a half-Korean man came to learn Japanese.”

Lance watches Keith’s eyes wander, not sure where to look. His milky white fingers tighten on the glass in his hand. There was pain, hurt, twisting its way around his dark eyes like ivy, swirling in their depths like a storm rolling in. He wasn’t as expressive in his face, but those eyes made up the difference.

“It’s alright, Keith. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything. You owe me nothing. I’ve clearly overstepped.” Lance reaches out, gently touching Keith’s hand, running his thumb over the back, rolling over delicate bones. “I’m sorry.”

Keith looks up at him, and Lance watches the man deliberate, watches light flash in his eyes, in his thoughts. Keith is midnight. He’s a storm and the lightning and the rain on his skin. He’s dangerous, exhilarating, refreshing. He’s a risk Lance is willing to take whether he gets the man’s life story or not. One more flash of light in that navy abyss and Keith nods.

“No, it-it’s fine. It’s just hard to talk about. Um. Okay, so my brother is Japanese.  He lost his parents not long after they immigrated. I never knew my parents.” It’s not entirely true, but it’s as much as Keith is willing to say tonight. He glances up to Lance and sighs. The man’s brows are furrowed, his lips in a small frown, trying to understand. “We grew up together in the same foster home, and he taught me Japanese. He’s four years older than me.” Keith swallows. “He tried to get me out, but they wouldn’t give him custody. I, uh. I kind of fell apart without him. Dropped out of school. Did some bad things.  Got caught. Did some time. Made a decision. Got my GED at twenty. Went to trade school. During the day, I work as an automechanic. In the evenings, I work at Garrison’s. When I’m not working, I sleep and look after my brother. He’s had a really hard year.” Keith scowls into his drink. “I know it sounds dumb or pathetic or whatever, looking after your older brother at this age, but...I’d do anything for Shiro. He’s done so much for me and I...I almost lost him.”

Keith sets his glass on the table, running his fingernail through a scratch in the countertop. He doesn’t look up. Lance wonders if the man’s waiting for judgement. No wonder the man before him is shy. No wonder he doesn’t have very much. The world, the odds have been against him from the very start. Lance had everything handed to him. Keith scrapes by on the fragments of a living he dug up himself. Where Lance would surely have evaporated away, Keith has risen like a phoenix. He just doesn’t have the room to spread his wings.

“You amaze me,” Lance murmurs. Keith’s eyes, shining with water, widen and he finally looks at him. Lance smiles. “I can’t even imagine not having my family around me, let alone for them to be taken from me. I wouldn’t have gotten nearly as far as you have.” Lance reaches out and takes one of his hands. “You should be proud of that.”

“You don’t think I’m just a loser who doesn’t know what fork to use?” Lance giggles in spite of himself. He’s always been a lighthearted fellow, always sought to maintain a sunny state of mind.

“I think you’re an accomplished human being who can learn which fork to use if he so chooses. Do you work a lot?” Keith takes another sip of his drink, feeling far more relaxed. Lance thinks he’s amazing. He blames the blush on the rum.

“Weekdays, I work from six to two at a mechanic’s on Arus Street. Then from four to eight at Garrison’s. On Fridays, I work until close since the mechanic’s not open on weekends. Saturdays I work two to close at Garrison’s. Sundays, I’ve got nothing.”

“So what do you do on Sundays?” Keith shrugs. There’s a warm feeling in the back of his brain now, slow and sleepy.

“Sleep, eat, watch anime. Jerk off.” Lance throws his head back and laughs. It’s a pure, brilliant sound, clean, clear, full of smiles. He’s unphased by the honesty of Keith’s answer, seeming not to register the loneliness hidden beneath it. Keith’s isn’t sure of he wants Lance to see it or not. He does. He doesn’t. It’s complicated. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

“Is that it? Is that truly all you do?” Keith smiles. Perhaps he did notice. Perhaps Keith is glad he noticed.

“Sometimes I come here and play video games. Why? What do you do?”

“Truthfully?” Keith nods, taking another sip of his drink. He likes this a lot. It’s different than sneaking up to someone’s room to make out or messy blowjobs on high school staircases between classes. This is different. It’s more intellectual and there are real emotions involved.

“My schedule is, by its very nature, irregular, but I do have days where work is not required. On those days, I often find myself doing the very same thing.” Keith’s laugh is like midnight. It’s wild and restless, the sound slipping away like a skittish animal. Lance finds it wonderful, enchanting. “See, Mullet? We have things in common-” Lance breaks off, putting a horrified hand over his mouth. Keith just gives him an amused smile. He’s been told many times that his hair is a mullet, but he argues that, mullet or not, the style suits him, and the long hair at the nape of his neck provides another layer against the midwinter cold.

“Heh. I knew it.” Keith’s smile widens. “You’re not always the refined gentleman, are you?” Lance’s face is warm. “Tell me. How does Lance McClain sound inside his own head?”

Keith climbs over the countertop to retrieve more rum and coke, this time leaving them within reach. He refills both of their glasses, watching Lance think. Keith would posit that Lance’s thinking face is as attractive as his smile or his frustrated frown, but he knows he’s incredibly biased. Still, the way the Latino’s bottom lip sticks out ever so slightly is indisputably adorable.

“Mnh... Like everyone else, I suppose.” Lance takes another sip of his drink. “In general, however, this is my pattern of speech. Unless I’m with my twin sister. Then the word ‘deadass’ is tossed around quite frequently. But this is how I sound in public.”

“Deadass?” Keith raises an eyebrow. Lance McClain is full of surprises.

“Deadass,” Lance confirms. “As in, I’d deadass go home with you.” Keith doesn’t even blink. He’s known since the restaurant that one of them wasn’t going home tonight. It doesn’t help the nervous, slightly guilty squirm in his stomach. That’s for the rum to take care of. It’s been a long time since he’s been with anyone, and he’s fairly certain he never had any real feelings for any of them. Certainly not to this extent. Plus, Lance only just lost his girlfriend. It doesn’t really matter if he was happy; the whole ordeal has been emotionally taxing for him. Keith is taking advantage of that. He consoles himself with the fact that Lance is taking advantage of him as well and that tomorrow morning -and potentially the rest of his life- will serve as penance.

It’s problematic. Keith isn’t keen on being Lance McClain’s rebound, but he _is_ keen on the man himself. He leaves generous tips. He’s polite. He begins his requests with a ‘please’ and ends with a ‘thank you’. He smiles like the sun and Keith can feel his warmth in the few inches left between them. Keith wants nothing more than for that warmth to work its way inside him so he can enjoy it. He just wants to be warm, even if only for the night.

“Hmmm, well…” Keith elects to try and cover his emotional panic with a tease. “That hinges on a question, doesn’t it?”

“And what question is that?” Lance props his head up on one hand, more than willing to play. His eyes are dark and glittering, shifting with his mood, pulling Keith along in a rip current of expression. Keith leans over, placing a hand on Lance’s knee, coming closer and closer until his lips are brushing the shell of the man’s ear.

“I wonder...how would you sound in other, more secluded places?” Keith knows he's not much good at flirting, but he'll try anyway. The corner of Keith’s mouth quirks up. He’s curious to see how Lance will take his words. He’s curious to see who will be in charge tonight. Lance give a quiet chuckle.

The slender man works fingers into Keith’s dark hair, grinning. “The real question,” he murmurs, inhaling the scent of the other man. “Is how _you_ sound when I’m in, as you put it, ‘other places’.” Lance curls his tongue over Keith’s ear before nipping at the lobe, tugging just enough to sting. He revels in the way the other man shivers against him. Keith’s reaction sends a shot of electricity coursing through him and Lance is about ready to leave-

“And?” the man chokes. “How-how should I sound?” -or they can stay and play a few more minutes. Lance doesn’t mind. Keith smells good and his dark hair is soft beneath his fingers. He can’t wait to mark up his pale, pale skin. He could lay a week’s worth of claim to the man with a complexion like that. He wants to. He wants it, to use him, own him, claim him. He’s guilty. He’s not. It’s complicated. Everything’s complicated.

Lance chuckles low in Keith’s ear. “However you want,” he whispers, taking Keith’s lobe between his teeth again. He begins trailing lips and teeth along Keith’s jaw. Keith moans, the noise loud in the deafening silence of the empty bar. The fingers still on Lance’s thigh tighten and a hand works it way into his hair, holding Lance close.

“Oh,” Keith gasps. Lance chuckles again, breath grazing Keith’s cheek. He hears the edge of a whimper and lets his lips travel to the smaller man’s throat.

“When you get me home, will you let me have you?” the Latino murmurs, pressing a moaning kiss to Keith’s neck. Keith swallows against his lips and Lance smiles against his throat. He manages a weak nod. He doesn’t currently have the brain to speak. It’s been a long time since anyone’s given him this level of attention and he’s awash in sensation, drowning happily and willingly amidst Lance’s administrations.

Lance’s lips continue their exploration, unbuttoning the topmost button of Keith’s shirt to attend to the the man’s collarbones. Keith sighs and a second hand joins the first in the soft brown hair, holding Lance close to his skin. Lance shifts one hand to brush gently against Keith’s throat, feeling the moans and whimpers catch as the man swallows them down. It simply won’t do. Lance latches onto his collarbone, nipping and suckling at the skin until it breaks, flooding his mouth with copper and his ears with a moan Keith couldn’t swallow in time.

Lance lathes over the mark, the warm, wet, mobile tongue sweet and soothing, then gently nuzzles against Keith’s neck. His hand travel down, plucking at buttons, at the red leather of his coat. Keith stops him by taking the long brown fingers in his own pale ones. If they travel any farther, Keith can’t promise he can honor Curtis’ trust in him. Already the bar right next to them is full of new and shining possibilities.

“We should go,” Lance sighs, breath tickling Keith’s newly heated skin. “Take me home?” Keith nods, watching for a moment as, unable to still, the brown fingers lace with his and flex and curl between his own digits. Keith wants those hands. He wants them to touch him, to feel him, to take him.

Keith lifts Lance’s hands, pressing his lips to the pad of each and every finger. Lance shivers, and Keith takes his lips to the palms of his hands. Lance sighs. He wishes for Keith to like his hands.

His hands, his hands never stay still. His hands, his hands can knit. His hands, his hands can play the piano. His hands, his hands press into Keith’s hair, long white tendrils wrapping gently around his wrists like mist and Lance leans close on his stool to keep the vapor from slipping away, chasing after it in the hopes that it might last.

Keith slips off the stool and, unable to help himself, brings his lips to Lance’s pulse point, pressing gently against the drumroll beat of life dancing beneath the caramel skin. Long white fingers find their way from wrist to waist, pulling Lance closer and the taller man somehow manages to find the floor beneath him. Keith finds Lance’s lips with his own and the man presses Keith back against the counter as his tongue runs over Keith’s own lips and he opens.

His tongue is hot and seeking, tasting of rum and sugar. It tangles with his own, laps at the roof of his mouth, seeking more and more of his taste. Hands wander from hair to neck to back, from waist to hips and up and down, kneading flesh. Arms wrap like vines, seeking, yearning for a closeness not possible here in the light. The tongues pull back, replaced by teeth, searching to fill the place where _something_ needs to be and _now._

Then the moment ends and the lips break away until there’s nothing left but breath ghosting on skin where fingers long to be instead. Fingers curl into red leather, into soft heavy wool. Foreheads press again, unwilling to break contact even though the moment is broken.

It doesn’t feel like the beginning of a one night stand. It feels like the beginning of many. There’s not a whole lot here- a few scraps of memories, understated and unexplained. The connection, the attraction is more physical than anything else, but there’s an understanding that there’s more. There’s something more, buried beneath the surface. There’s a promise of more complexity, of more depth than the shallow puddles they’ve spent the night skirting.

“I should warn you,” Keith whispers. “My apartment has no heat. My friend won’t be able to fix it until tomorrow.”

Lance gives a soft little laugh, echoing in the emptiness of the bar. “It hardly matters. We’ll generate our own heat.”

“Also my brother might be there.”

“Will he judge us?”

“Hell no. He’ll probably congratulate me tomorrow.” Keith gently rearranges Lance’s disarrayed coat.

“Hmm. I’d be offended, but I am quite the score.” Keith kisses Lance’s cheek.

“You’re not a score. I don’t know what you are, exactly. But your not a score. It makes you sound like a conquest.”

“Good.” Lance’s lips brush against his, and it takes all of Keith’s willpower not to open to him. Mercifully, cruelly, Lance draws away moments later. “Take me to your cold, already occupied apartment. I want you.”

Keith has barely exited the bar when Lance presses him up against a wall, his kiss-bruised lips chasing after him. Keith has every choice, no choice but to respond, rising up off his heels to deepen the kiss. He kisses Lance like a starving man. In a sense, he is. He’s been starved of something all his life and now it’s standing right in front of him. Keith’s impulse control has always been virtually nonexistent.

The snow is only coming down harder, leaving flakes in their hair. Keith finds himself everywhere on the short walk home; walls; lampposts; mailboxes; someone’s car. Lance’s mouth, Lance’s neck, Lance’s waist, Lance’s back; Lance’s hands don’t stop moving. They’re touching him everywhere, pinching at the leather of his jacket, pulling, tugging his still-unbuttoned shirt, hooking into his belt loops and pulling him closer as if he’s unaware Keith is already his. By the time they’re outside Keith’s derelict apartment complex, all the attention has more than gotten to them both, and he’s pinned against the wall just outside the entrance.

Lance takes his lips again, takes Keith's lips between his teeth, reveling in the whimpers and moans coming from his companion. “Tell me,” Lance murmurs, as Keith ducks to suckle at his beating pulse. “When I finally let you get me inside, what will you have me do to you?” Lance slips his long, slender leg in between Keith’s and Keith moans, sighing against Lance’s throat. His body aches with need, aches for Lance. This part isn’t complicated. It will be complicated after the fact.

“Everything,” he whispers, cropping his teeth lightly against the man’s skin. “Anything. Whatever you want. I don’t even care.” Lance hums against Keith’s lips. “God, you’re beautiful.” Keith lifts a hand from Lance’s waist to feel the heat rise in those wind-bitten cheeks, momentarily forgetting the heat between his legs. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’s possibly the only beautiful thing Keith has ever seen, but that’s neither here nor there. The point is, Lance is beautiful and Keith needs him. Even if only this once, if only for the night, Keith needs him. He needs something clean, fresh, warm and this is it. Keith pulls back, taking Lance’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, pulling the taller man down ever so slightly, gazing into the darkened eyes, bright blue irises almost completely taken over by black. He lets their lips brush briefly.

“Let me get you out of this wind. I can’t say anything about the cold, but it’ll still be better than this.” Lance slips a hand from his hair to his waist, sliding it around to keep him close. Keith lets himself snuggle in as they head inside, up to the seventh floor.

Shiro’s asleep. He’d been messaging Curtis and somehow managed to fall asleep. He’s a light sleeper, though he hasn’t always been. It used to be nothing could wake him. Now, the softest noise can sound like twisting, tearing metal and shattering glass. This includes the turning of a key in the deadbolt.

In the pitch black of the frigid apartment, Shiro listens unmoving beneath the layers of blankets he grabbed before he lost his apartment. He hears the door open, hears it bang against the wall, hears the loss of their security deposit. The door is kicked closed and a set of keys is thrown onto the counter. Heavy fabric hits the floor.

Something hits the door again and there’s a gasp, followed by other, far more embarrassing noises. Shiro smirks. He should let it go. He should just snuggle down beneath his blankets and put his noise-cancelling headphones on. Or perhaps he should absolutely humiliate his brother.

Keith thinks he sees the shadow of a sliver of movement behind him, but he’s distracted. He has his reasons. Lance’s fingers are in his hair, tugging at the locks. His tongue in his mouth, twisting with his own. He pulls Lance closer, battling the chill of the apartment with the other man’s warmth. Lance thrusts his leg between Keith’s own again and he gasps, startled at the sudden contact, before he grinds down, seeking more sensation. An embarrassingly needy sound escapes him as he turns his head away, inviting Lance to kiss him other places.

Lance slides his hands down the backs of Keith’s thighs and Keith obediently hops up, wrapping his legs around Lance’s waist. Using the door for leverage, Lance begins unbuttoning his waistcoat and then his shirt as Keith untucks it, reaching underneath to tease his heated skin. Once enough of the buttons are unfastened, Keith’s lips fall hot and wet to his collarbones, teeth grazing the skin before sinking down, kneading at his flesh until the skin breaks and Lance moans. Spurred on by Lance’s moan, Keith rolls his body against Lance’s, groaning at the sensations washing over him, so much and not nearly enough.

“Hey, Keith. You forget I was here?” Shiro allows amusement to flood his voice, not wanting to worry his brother.

There’s a scream followed by a curse, the sound of feet hitting the floor. Shiro turns on the secondhand lamp to see his disheveled brother moving to stand in front of a slightly taller man with brown skin and startling blue eyes. He notices how well the stranger is dressed despite his open waistcoat and his shirt untucked and bunched as though hands had just recently found their way beneath it. He notices the stranger’s hands and how they wander over Keith as though they have a mind of their own. Both mens’ cheeks are flushed and Shiro can see bruises and a pair of impressive bite marks. Keith will be sporting hickeys for days, he can tell.

“Go back to sleep, Shiro,” Keith growls, giving him a pointed glare. Apparently, this is important. Shiro knows this is important. “If you ruin this, I will murder you with your own arm.” An adorable giggle rushes forth from the stranger, who seems entirely unphased. In fact, all he does is press a kiss to Keith’s ear, suckling briefly on his earlobe.

“Hello,” says a precious voice from behind. “I’m Lance.” This is perfect. He’s perfect. Shiro grins. “Your brother waits my table. He takes excellent care of me.” Lance whispers something in Keith’s ear and Keith blushes furiously. Shiro assumes it’s a promise to return the favor.

“I can see that,” Shiro says. He’s known full well for months that Keith serves Lance McClain dinner nearly every Friday. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I have noise-cancelling headphones, so if I can hear you, the neighbors have already called the police.”

Lance giggles. Keith gives Shiro a glare as he pulls the man down the hall to his room. Shiro sinks back on the couch, ruing the warmth that escaped when he sat up to embarrass his brother. On impulse, he pulls out his phone to text Curtis.

 **Shiro:** He’s perfect

 **Curtis:** ???

 **Shiro:** Lance. He’s perfect

 **Curtis:** I KNOW RIGHT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

 **Curtis:** Stop planning their wedding. At least give it a week.

 **Shiro:** I’m thinking we go with purple…

 **Curtis:** do you still need work?

Shiro sighs. He doesn’t want to deal with this. He just wants to have a friend; one that isn’t his brother.

 **Shiro:** yes

 **Curtis:** looking 4 someone to help @ my bar. Business has picked up in last yr n i need help. Thought u might like it

 **Curtis:** I’m not trying 2 mess with u or anything. I just wanna help.

 **Curtis:** also red and blue, separate. We can joke about them making purple tho

 **Shiro:** I’ll be in at 1

 **Shiro:** fair

Curtis doesn’t respond, but it’s fine. It’s fine. He doesn’t need to worry. Curtis is his friend and nothing more. Plus, Shiro needs to get back on his feet. He needs his own place, his own life. He doesn’t have to move on. He doesn’t have to get over anything. But he does need to get on with his life. Shiro trusts Curtis. He trusts Curtis not to push him too far. He likely won’t even push at all. Shiro wants him to push. He doesn’t. It’s complicated.

Kosmo emerges from the hallway like a ghost, closely followed by Red, no doubt fleeing the stranger in Keith’s room. Shiro pats his stomach and the white German shepherd hops up, lying on top of him. Shiro works his prosthetic fingers into the dog’s hair and sighs. Red forces his way beneath the blankets, curling up at Shiro’s feet. As he settles back down, pulling on his headphones, he feels something pulling at him. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s hope. Shiro isn’t sure.

Back in the shabby bedroom, Lance lays Keith gently on the old mattress, brushing his lips over snowy skin, his hands exploring the well-muscled flesh. Keith’s fingers are in his hair, pulling gently but firmly at the short brown strands. Lance sighs, nuzzling Keith’s neck. It’s a strangely affectionate gesture, he knows; even stranger for a one night stand. Maybe it’s the rum in his veins, but Lance really likes Keith. He likes Keith a lot. He certainly likes him more than he thought he did. It makes him wonder if maybe his ex wasn’t the only one in the wrong these past eight months. He decides it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter anymore. It does. It’s complicated.

“I know it’s a little late to say it, but God damn, you’re beautiful.” Lance's lips pluck lightly along Keith's jaw to his cheek, gentle and sweet. What was the last time someone treated him gently, sweetly? Keith can't remember.

“If you say so,” Keith whispers, wondering if Lance says it out of obligation or sincerity. It doesn’t matter. Or maybe it does. He isn’t sure and just now he doesn’t care. He’s known Lance McClain for a while and just wants to know him more.

“Te voy a hacer el amor,” Lance murmurs, guiding Keith’s lips up for a kiss, and Keith happily obliges, tangling their tongues for a moment before drawing back.

“Whatever that means, yes.” Lance giggles again and Keith joins their lips again so he doesn’t have to listen to his own funeral dirge any longer. The chant runs through both their heads, unbeknownst to the other.

 

_Just for tonight. Just for tonight. Just for tonight._


	2. Old Fashioned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just because there's something wrong with me doesn't mean there's something wrong with ME. Right?

Keith’s apartment is freezing. Everything is freezing. Lance isn’t freezing. In the pale light of early morning penetrating the top half of the narrow, grimy, curtainless window, the bottom half obscured by snow, Lance sees Keith’s life. He sees a pile of dirty clothes on the floor. He sees a basket of clean clothes leaning up against a crowd of boxes in a tiny closet next to a small pile of shoes. He sees a dirty plate on the nightstand, an old lamp with a battered, crooked lampshade, a bottle of lube, first opened last night, or perhaps early this morning- Lance isn’t certain. He sees no pictures, nothing on the walls. He sees no memorabilia, nerd cred, diplomas or degrees; nothing.

Lance sees Keith. He feels Keith snuggled up against him, arms wrapped around Lance’s middle, head tucked under Lance’s chin, a space heater unlike any other. The reason Lance isn’t freezing heaves a sleepy sigh, snuggling in closer, hiding from the cold. Lance slowly removes his arm from around the other man’s waist, pulls the blankets more closely around them. Keith smells good, like spices, like cinnamon, like something else. He feels good, like velvet, like silk, like mist cool to the touch. Yet, he's warm, hot even, so much so that Lance checks him for fever. The cold necessitates the familiarity. So Lance tells himself.

In sleep, Keith is soft, innocent, child-like. His cherry blossom lips part slightly, sighing against Lance’s skin. His lashes are so long, so curly they lace into each other, brushing against delicate cheekbones. Lance soaks in the pale skin, rosy cheeks framed by thick locks of dark hair. Keith is ever so slightly smaller than Lance, though more compactly built, more muscular, wider hips. Lance likes the way they fit together. He likes this. He likes Keith. He likes him a lot more than he should after eight months of polite exchanges, after a single one night stand.

Unable to restrain his fingers any longer, Lance begins to slip them slowly up and down Keith’s back, sliding up and down his toned leg, his rear, his waist, his shoulder. Keith sighs at the touch, slotting one of his legs more firmly between Lance’s. Lance takes the hint, hands moving with more purpose.

“Buenos dias,” Lance murmurs.

“Mmh,” Keith whispers, pressing his lips to sun-kissed skin. “おはよう。” Lance’s lips curl into a smile, liking the phrasing.

“おはよう,” he repeats. A shiver runs through his companion. Lance brushes light fingertips up Keith’s spine, elicits a soft whimper. The corner of Lance’s mouth lifts as he works his fingers into the thick dark hair at the nape of Keith’s neck and tugs gently to guide the man’s mouth into range-

Something vibrates in the corner of the room. Lance pauses, gives it a few seconds, it happens again. Keith groans, shifting slightly.

“My phone is dead. That’s yours,” he whispers. Lance sighs.

“If you want me to make them go away, I’m afraid you’ll have to let me go.” Keith doesn’t move. “If you do, I can also retrieve my coat so we can be warmer.” Keith sighs, slipping his arms away. The smaller man curls in on himself, Lance ignores the emotional distress from the removal of contact -it isn’t real-, slips out of the bed to retrieve his phone. It’s Veronica.

 **Vero:** emergency

 **Vero:** i need you

 **Vero:** i know you’re up you morning person monster

 **Vero:** literally i will kill you

 **Vero:** Nyma seriously keep you up that late

 **Vero:** answer me gdi

 **Lance:** Lance is busy. Come back later

 **Vero:** oh come on lancey lance. Te necesito. I’ll do anything

 **Lance:** then perish

Putting his phone on Do Not Disturb, Lance pads down the short hallway to retrieve his coat, shivering in the frigid air. Once he reaches the kitchen, he pulls the thick, soft wool around his naked form, sighs as the material captures his warmth, keeps it close to his skin. He’s eager to get it around Keith, to capture more of the heat radiating off of his form. He’s falling too fast, but it’s nothing new for him. It’s troublesome. It’s not. It’s complicated.

“Can I open my eyes?” calls a voice. Lance squeaks, jumps at the sound. He whirls around to see a large Asian man with grey eyes and silver hair smiling at him, amused. Lance pulls the coat more carefully around himself, suddenly hyper aware of all the minuscule flaws on his person, hyper aware of the prosthetic limb and the thick scar across the other man’s nose.

“You’re Keith’s brother. Shiro, right?”

“Yes, and you’re Lance. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Strange.

“Have you?” the gentleman asks. Shiro looks the man up and down. He’s tall, slender, pretty. His fingers dance in smooth, graceful arcs along his coat, finding buttons on the way. He’s unsure how much to say, but his first instinct is to protect Keith.

“Quite often, in fact,” Shiro whispers, stitching a threat into his tone. It works, the roses falling from Lance McClain’s cheeks, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. Shiro believed Keith was exaggerating all the times he told him he found Lance beautiful, but he sees it now. He’s not blind, after all.

Lance’s brown skin combined with bright blue eyes cuts a striking form. His high cheekbones, slender, delicate features add a shade of femininity to his countenance. Those thin, soft lips that can’t seem to fully find a frown add a fey aspect to his personage. His blemishes make Shiro smile. His ears stick out ever so slightly too much, his hair a collection of soft cowlicks. His cheeks are spattered with cinnamon freckles, faint with midwinter. There’s a little scar on his pointed chin and Shiro’s heard more than one speculation as to how it found a home there. Shiro can’t quite suppress a smile at the image of this flawed, pretty creature that’s finally made someone real to Keith.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Lance whispers, staring at the older man. He’s done something wrong, he’s certain of it now.

Shiro wipes the smile from his face. “This,” he says, voice soft and ominous. “This is the part that never happened.” Lance looks up, swallows, nods, holds Shiro's stare. “My brother is not your toy, understand?” Nod. “He is not your consolation prize or your rebound, understand?” Nod. “If you want to try and build something with him, fine. But there is no one else while you do. My brother is not your arm candy, your trophy, your side hoe, whatever. And neither is anybody else while you have him, understand? There is only him. If you hurt him, if you mess with him, if you break his heart, I will kill you. Understand?” This time, Lance scowls, eyes growing frosty yet searing at the same time. Shiro’s struck a nerve. “I know your type. I know you like to play around-"

"You don't know me or my type." It's a snarl, like a startled feral dog. The man deflates with a sigh.

“I like him,” Lance whispers, unable to stand by and let this man insinuate he’s some whoremongering reprobate in a pretty wrapper. Shiro raises an eyebrow. “I like him, alright? My girlfriend left me without a word last night and I realized I like him maybe an hour later. Maybe I have for a while; I’m not certain. I’m aware that makes me a horrible person and I’m aware that I’ve done something reprehensible. Furthermore, if you want to judge me for my conduct last night, fine. But don’t you dare even suggest that I’m a slut, or a whore, or some other playboy-esque archetype you’ve seen on television. Don’t. You. _Dare._ That, I will not tolerate.”

This is a development Shiro hadn’t been expecting. He hadn’t been expecting to see a dark side, a summer squall that lasts only a little while but leaves everything wet, dripping, disheveled. Everything has layers and the young man in front of him sporting hickeys, bedhead, and a wealthy veneer is a strong reminder of that. Staring into those glittering blues, Shiro wonders how he ever forgot. What else has he forgotten?

“If you like him, if you really, truly like him, then stay. If not, leave now, and no, you can’t get dressed first.” Shiro shifts his left arm and winces. The junction between his stump and his prosthetic sends ribbons of pain slithering up his arm, into his shoulder, down his spine. He winces.

“Do you have painkillers?” Lance asks, cocking his head. The gentleman makes no move to leave, and Shiro assumes, with a carefully measured teaspoon of hope, that he wants to stay.

“Have fun last night?” Shiro asks, humor undermined by sucking air through his teeth.

“I am not the one in pain. You are. ¿Dónde están?”

“Pills are in the cupboard by the fridge. Ibuprofen. Acetaminophen doesn’t work anymore.” Lance retrieves them and tracks down a glass, filling it with water. He dances over and sits down next to Shiro, subconsciously scratching Kosmo behind the ear. He likes this man with the sad grey eyes filled with ghosts. He understands a desire to protect what’s precious.

“Keith told me the two of you grew up together. Sounded like you two were close.”

“We were. Are. Very close,” Shiro whispers. Lance cocks his head. He’d told Keith he would return, but he’s only been gone a few moments. He’ll be back before long.

“How’d you guys end up so tight? I only have related siblings. Well, and a sister-in-law, but we aren’t that close. I don’t see her very often, so we don’t know each other very well.”

“We’re both gay,” Shiro said. “I knew who I was already, was confident, comfortable in it. When Keith began to question, I helped him through it. He was a wreck. Thought his life was ruined. I managed to pull him out of that mindset, and we got to know each other, bond, find common interests. When I left, I tried to take him with me, but they wouldn’t let me. Without me, the others, our supposed siblings, fell on him like stray dogs and he fell apart.”

“Did you give up?” Lance asks, voice barely even there. “Did you let that stand?”

“I...I never stopped fighting for him. But they considered me unreliable. Barely an adult and living with a boyfriend. They gave other reasons, but I knew the truth. Everyone knew the truth.” Shiro sighs, drowning his pain in water. “I was barely able to see him.”

“You did the best you could,” Lance says, smiling that sweet smile Keith finds so captivating. This man has no idea, Shiro realizes, no idea at all. “That’s all anyone can do, all anyone can ask for.”

“But they always hope for more. He did.” Lance isn’t sure what to say to that, and so says nothing. The older man is right. Then it comes to him.

“Well, he has more now, so that’s something.” Shiro isn’t certain if he finds Lance’s optimism endearing or annoying. It might be both. Either way, that smile is contagious, slipping onto Shiro’s face without a second’s hesitation. It would be alright, Shiro thinks, if Lance were to stay. It would be fine to lose Keith to Lance. Lance would take good care of his brother.

“Yeah, I guess.” Shiro considers for a moment, then “You know, he doesn’t really see other people. The population of Keith’s world has always just been Keith and Shiro. End of story. So I’m grateful to you for giving him at least a little more. I worry that he’s lonely.”

Lance nibbles his lip, then remembers he’s not supposed to do that. Keith is lonely? Of course he is. The man is so shy, so quiet, so introverted it’s not at all unfathomable for him to be isolated. So what makes Lance so special? Yet Lance can’t help but smile at the thought that he might have made a positive difference in someone’s life; it’s all he’s ever wanted. He feels a bit of color find its way beneath his skin. His thoughts are interrupted by the appearance of a sweatpants-clad Keith, who throws himself down between Lance and Shiro.

“Thought you said you were coming back,” Keith mumbles, snuggling up against him. The man is still sleepy, hair mussed, eyes still dazed, beautiful. Lance steals some of Shiro’s blanket pile and pulls them over himself and Keith, hugging the man close. Icy fingers find the buttons of his coat, exposing his skin to warm the air between them. “Thought you left.”

“Why on Earth did you leave the bed?”

“Got cold without you.” _I got lonely._ He’s always lonely. He’s not lonely right now. Keith shivers as winter runs its icy fingers down the back of his neck. He presses his face close to Lance’s body and Lance can feel the way he blushes. “You’re still here.” Lance listens to the soft wonderment gilding Keith’s voice. The smile crosses his lips, unbidden, not unwelcome.

“I was only gone a few seconds.”

“You were gone for like, ten minutes.” Lance grimaces. He’d lost track of time, gotten distracted. His fingers dance where they’re gripping Keith’s arm and he tries to stop them. He tries so hard. He’s not certain Keith will be understanding if he tries to explain. He’d best try anyway.

“Sorry. I...I get sidetracked easily.” He averts his gaze. “I’m working on it, but it’s-it’s not exactly something I can help...” Shiro eyes the man curiously. He clearly has some kind of disorder, spread between his unfocused hands and his unfocused mind, and clearly someone hasn’t been accommodating, understanding to him in the past.

“It’s alright,” Keith murmurs. “Shiro’s pretty cool.” He sighs, content. Lance is back and he’s warm again. Eventually, he’ll have to leave, but for now, this is perfect. Lance is still here. He’s still here. He’s still here. “What time is it?” he asks, running fingers up and down the delicately defined muscles, the smooth brown skin. He relishes the way goosebumps rise beneath his fingernails, the bob of Lance’s throat, the subtle hitch of his breath.

“Nine,” Lance says, glancing at the clock on the stove. Keith has a few hours then. Shiro gets up, calling for Kosmo. The dog trots over immediately, tail wagging. The older man, having noticed Keith’s not-so-subtle fumbling beneath the blankets, and Lance’s surprisingly subtle reaction, tugs on his worn running shoes and grabs a leash from the cluttered counter.

“We’re going for a run,” Shiro announces. “We’ll be back in a bit.”

“Mm. Have fun,” Keith murmurs as Red sneaks his way under the blankets. Lance squeals in delight as the cat finds his way into his lap. Keith smiles. After Shiro heads out, he does his best to snuggle even closer to Lance’s warmth; he can’t get any closer; he’s so far away.

“Did-did you want me to be gone?” Lance murmurs after a moment. Lance doesn’t _think_ so, but after the emotional roller coaster ride from last night, he wants to be sure. He doesn’t want anymore misunderstandings.

There’s a stretch of silence while his fingers move over Keith’s body. Then he feels the other’s face heat up against his skin. Lance smiles. He finds he very much likes how easily the man blushes.

“N-no. I’m glad that you’re still here.” Keith hates how he blushes. It scares him, what this man is capable of. It scares him. The emotional sincerity is too much for Keith, so he tags on, “I’d freeze to death if you weren’t,” to lighten his words. Lance doesn’t appear phased, fingers painting pleasing circles on his skin. Keith really, _really_ likes those hands, likes what they do to him, how they make him feel, how they leave trails of sunlight in their wake, sinking into his skin.

“You probably would. And then where would I be?” Lance feels Keith’s blush deepen and smiles with satisfaction. “Thanks for letting me stay. I don’t do well on my own.”

Keith considers this. It makes sense, if Lance would prefer to spend the night with a virtual stranger than sleep alone, that he remained with that woman for so long. Well, it almost makes sense. Keith’s not typically one for constant companionship; he’s the kind of person who needs to be alone sometimes. He’s not at all surprised by Lance’s need for constant attention, however. He wonders fleetingly if Lance McClain could survive on his own. The longer he spends with the man, the more likely he finds it that Lance would chase a butterfly into oncoming traffic because he found it pretty, or go home with a broke reprobate (in Iverson’s words) because he was lonely.

“Not-not that I’m only here because I didn’t want to be alone! I mean, yes, but there’s more to it than that! I actually had a nice time with you and-” Keith, amused but slightly overstimulated by Lance’s sudden outburst of ramblings, presses a kiss to the taller man’s lips. Lance lets out a surprised squeak, but doesn’t pull away.

Instead, Lance pulls Keith closer. Kissing Keith feels different now, alcohol no longer fogging his mind. How much did he drink last night, how much wine, how much rum? It doesn’t matter, Lance decides, as he works his fingers up into the dark hair at the nape of Keith’s neck, works his hand around Keith’s narrow waist. The cat lets out a sound of protest and escapes, fleeing to the entertainment center. Lance ignores the feline’s judgmental stare, instead brushing his tongue against Keith’s lips. They part on a sigh, granting him access with a soft willingness born of a long night and a sleepy morning.

Lance begins to slowly rearrange them, guiding Keith into his lap, and Keith complies without a sound. As long as those precious hands are on him, he’ll go anywhere, do anything. It’s a problem. It’s not. It’s complicated. Once he’s properly straddling Lance’s lap, he rolls his hips, acutely aware that Lance is still naked aside from the coat slipping down his shoulders, the blankets slipping down Keith’s shoulders, aware of the fingers kneading his skin, the fingers in Lance’s hair. Lance moans, and Keith pulls back to tug at his bottom lip.

Lance wraps an arm around Keith’s waist as the smaller man rises up onto his knees, switching the angle, carding fingers through his hair. His hands return to Keith’s hips, hooking in the waistband of his sweatpants as Keith draws his lips up into another midnight kiss. Lance is on the brink of tugging those pants down when there’s a knock on the door.

“Whomst the fuck?” Lance growls, scowling. Keith draws back with a snicker, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. It’s strange to hear such a thing pass those lips. The hungry glint in those dilated eyes is even more enrapturing. “If you’re biting lips, you should be biting mine.” Keith leans down, more than happy to do just that, when the knock comes again. Whoever this person is, Keith will never forgive them.

“I’d better get that,” Keith whispers, brushing his lips against Lance’s. “Consider doing up your coat.”

“Would you hate so much for someone else to see me?” Lance asks, smirking, eyes glinting. Keith feels color rise violently in his cheeks as he climbs off of Lance. He would hate it, actually, though he’s unsure as to why. Lance is something he wants only for himself; Lance isn’t his to possess, isn’t his to share. He doesn’t want to share. It’s complicated.

Out in the hall, then in the kitchen, is a startlingly familiar woman in a pantsuit with caramel skin not quite as lovely as Lance’s, legs not quite as long, eyes not quite as blue. To the untrained eye, the woman is no more than a female variation of Lance. To Keith’s eye, this is an entirely different creature all together. Rather, this woman is entirely normal, and Lance is something extraordinary.

“Hola, hermanito. Get dressed. I need you.”

“Vero,” Lance says, less than pleased, for once, to see his twin sister. “¿Qué estás haciendo aquí? ¿Cómo me encontraste?”

“I installed a tracker app on your phone months ago, hermanito. In case we lose you.” Veronica looks him up and down a frowns. “Alejandro, ¿Qué estás haciendo? ¿Qué has hecho?”

Lance sighs. “Something stupid. I think. Probably. Possibly not. It’s complicated. So-”

“I need you to come with me to the mall. Acxa needs a gown for Valentines’.” Lance turns on his sister.

“Let me get this straight.” Veronica snorts. Keith just watches the exchange, curious. It’s a surprise, seeing that all close siblings have conversations of this kind: teasing, antagonistic, affectionate. He’d been under the impression the familiar jabs and taunts were unique to him and Shiro. He wonders what else he might have missed. What has he missed, been missing? “Very funny. You installed a stalker app on my phone.”

“Yes. In case I needed your flaky self.”

“You come track me down, interrupting my morning.”

“Okay, genuinely sorry about that.” Veronica turns to Keith then, raking eyes over his form, lingering on his toned core, love lines of his pelvis, his biceps, lips curling along a familiar, unfamiliar line, blue eyes glinting. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Complicated. Not. “He’s cute. I like his blush. Bet he’s a terrible liar.” Keith averts his gaze, uncomfortable with the attention.

“All because you want me to help you bully your fiancee into an evening gown?”

“Yes. Please? We won’t be alone. Allura’s coming to help. And we wanted an escort.”

Lance sits back on the couch, deliberating. Trying to get Acxa into a “very pretty but entirely impractical form of attire” is not tempting, but Lance genuinely loves his girls with all his heart, finds an opportunity to see Allura inviting. But Keith is also thoroughly inviting, and very warm. Lance looks guiltily at his sister, sitting back into the couch.

“Alejandro.” Lance flinches at the firmness in her tone. “Ve a vestirte. Ahora.”

“No he hecho nada mal,” Lance mumbles, fully aware that his words are untrue.

“Lo discutiremos,” Veronica stated, folding her arms, planting her feet. “Ve. a. vestirse.” Lance sighs and stands, averting his gaze from his sister and his host. He slips back to the bedroom to collect his belongings. He hasn’t done anything wrong. He has. It’s complicated.

Veronica turns to the other gentleman, taking in the view. She can see what Lance undoubtedly saw. The man is pretty, well-muscled, strong, ethereal; he’s pale, dark hair, dark eyes, color dark in his cheeks when he catches her gaze. Of course Lance would like someone like this. But this doesn’t excuse his sudden lack of decorum. It's not sudden. It's complicated.

“What’s your name?” Veronica asks, trying to meet that storm cloud gaze.

“I’m Keith,” Keith mumbles, studying the cracked linoleum. “You’re Veronica. Lance’s twin sister.”

“Yes, I’m Veronica. Nice to meet you, Keith.” Keith nods. “I’m very sorry for my brother’s behavior. He’s a good man, really. Only on occasion misguided.”

“He is a good man,” Keith whispers, smiling at the floor. “He’s nice.”

“He has a girlfriend,” Veronica murmurs, trying to be gentle as she watches the poor man blush. “I’m sorry.”

Keith scowls and Veronica flinches. “Not after last night.”

“Oh?” Veronica folds her arms. “And how would you know?”

“I serve his table every Friday,” Keith whispers, talking to the corner of the kitchen island. “She doesn’t treat him well. Last night, she walked by with someone else.”

Veronica tilts her head to catch more of his gaze and registers a fire in the depths. There’s something quiet, roiling deep in the abyss but more than capable of rising to the surface at a moment’s notice. Keith is far more than he appears.

“I certainly hope so. For his sake.” Veronica lets her brow furrow, her lips curve downward. Lance could have done some serious damage if he and Nyma aren’t as finished as he hopefully thinks.

“I swear I didn’t mean to make trouble for him. I just…” Keith trails off, searching for the words. He huffs in frustration, his own ineptitude betraying him once again. If he could just speak his mind, his life would be far easier. Lance might even choose to stay.

“Thought he was pretty. Everyone does.” Veronica’s gaze drops from the shy man in front of her to the ring on her finger, twisting it round and round, a nervous habit she’s picked up to replace her habit of rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. She and Lance are not so different as they seem.

“There’s more than that…” Keith whispers, voice barely audible. He looks like a child freshly reprimanded for something he didn’t do. Veronica’s disapproval wavers in light of his tentative defense. “There’s more.”

Lance comes dancing out, dressed in an ever-so-slightly rumpled suit, pulling his coat back on over the jacket. Veronica steps forward as he approaches, straightening the navy tie. “Do we need to go home for fresh clothes or is this okay?” She tries to be gentle, tries not to hurt him. If Keith’s words are true, then her brother is in less than fine form. It’s a small reassurance, but perhaps he hasn’t yet reverted to his old ways.

“No...It’s...fine. This is fine. Ah...” Lance turns to Keith. He already knows he won’t be returning to Garrison’s in the same way he knows the hours he spent with Keith were some of the nicest he’s had in a long time. He munches his lip, wishing he could be outgoing where it actually mattered, wishing he could push his shame out of the way. “Thank you. For last night? Thank you.” Keith nods, looking away, a red sunrise glowing beneath his pale skin. The air grows warm as Lance takes a cautious step forward, gentle brown fingers finding Keith’s waist, his cheek, and he leans in, brushing lips against that sweet blush, enjoying the way the heat flares beneath his lips. “I’ll see you around, Keith.”

Keith meets his eyes, licks his lips, notices the cerulean gaze drop to the action before flickering back to his own. Keith’s mouth waters and he swallows. A smile darts across that sweet summer for a moment and then the summer steps back and winter works its way around him once more.

Then, just like that, Lance is gone, wrist caught firmly in Veronica’s grip, leaving nothing but the ghost of a sweet scent, Keith’s blushing skin stinging in the cold. He hears the thud of the door close. In the corner of his mind, Keith recalls a screen door closing in his face.

He’s still standing there when Pidge arrives a few moments later, when Shiro finally returns with Kosmo. He’s frozen in place, stuck at a fixed point while the rest of the world moves around him. It’s cold.

 

“What. The fuck. Were you thinking?” Veronica demands the moment she gets Lance in the car. “Do you have any idea how this could look? What if Nyma isn’t as done as you think she is? What if the entire thing was a misunderstanding? Her family is-”

Lance’s attention drifts to the snow piled up on the sidewalks, the Christmas lights and garlands glittering in the windows, pigeons huddling in corners, homeless people standing close around trash can fires. He doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t care anymore if Nyma is done or not; Lance is done. He’s been done for months.

“Lance!” Lance starts, turning to his sister. “Are you even listening?”

“No, sorry. I tuned you out. Apologies.” Veronica huffs in unjust exasperation. Lance reaches for his pen, only to find his pocket empty. “Do you have one of my-”

“There’s a fidget spinner in the glove box.” Veronica eyes the little toy spinning slowly in her brother’s hands. “Lance, why would you think it’s a good idea to have a one night stand with your waiter?”

“He’s nice to me,” Lance whispers. “He smiles at me and listens when I talk. He doesn’t get impatient or take it personally when I get sidetracked.”

“Based off of what, Lance? Passing pleasantries he's required to offer and a couple hours’ conversation? And again, what about Nyma? You do realize that you might have cheated on her last night? And that poor man does not deserve to be your rebound. Don’t you realize what you might have dragged him into? You’re way too old for this now! It’s not cute anymore.”

“I don’t care if Nyma is done or not,” Lance says, trying his best to keep his anger in check even as his teeth grit. “ _I’m_ done.” He understands Veronica. She’s worked herself into the role of the responsible twin whilst he himself struggles to reach a a level of maturity that might encourage someone to take him seriously. “And it was never cute. We both know it.”

“You’re done,” Veronica repeated, turning into the mall parking lot. She lets the rest of Lance’s words stay as they are. There’s no argument, no defense, only the truth. “Deadass?”

“I’m done. Deadass. I’ve had enough. I’m not an idiot. I’m not some rambling fool. I’m tired of being treated like-like I’m less because…” Lance sighs, staring at the toy in his hands. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Lance gives a small sniffle as water rose up, in his eyes, unbidden, unwanted, unwelcome. “There’s nothing wrong with me.” Lance nibbles at his lip, eyes stinging. “I can do things just fine. I can. I know I can. I just...I need a little help sometimes, that’s all. There’s...There’s nothing wrong with me.” Lance isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince: himself, Veronica, his parents, Nyma, Keith. Regardless, there’s far too much evidence to suggest otherwise. He’s damaged, a defective good that can’t be returned.

Veronica’s heart breaks, hearing the hurt in her twin brother’s voice. She pulls into a parking spot and sits back, turning to look at her brother. Lance stares down at his hands, saltwater rimming his eyes. He munches on the inside of his bottom lip, glaring at his twitching fingers, fidget spinner abandoned in his lap. Veronica takes and squeezes one of his hands.

“No, there’s not. Did she say that to you? Did she make you think that?” Lance says nothing, not even returning the squeeze. It's as good a confirmation as any. “Well, fuck her then. You’re done. Deadass, do you like Keith?”

Lance gives a watery laugh. “Yeah, I believe so. Deadass,” he whispers, finally returning the squeeze and kissing her hand. Veronica reaches over and attempts to get his hair in some form of working order.

“What do you plan to do about it then?” Lance lowers his head a little, giving his sister more access to his hair. They both know it’s a lost cause, that Lance’s hair has never behaved and likely never will, that it’s more a transfer of affection, a reaffirming of family bonds after a stern lecture that the listening party didn’t even hear.

“I’m uncertain,” Lance admits, sitting back. Veronica meets his gaze. “I believe he likes me very much, and...ugh, let’s go inside. Allura will want to hear this anyway and I don’t care to go through my failings more than once.”

 

“How long has he been standing there?” Shiro whispers, eyeing Keith over his shoulder. He’s not sure why his brother is staring into space in the kitchen, but he knows Keith looks sad and he knows Lance has vanished. Shiro dreads the moment when he asks his brother what happened while he was out.

“Since I got here,” Pidge whispers back, not looking up from the radiator. “He barely even looked up when I came in. What the hell _happened?_ ”

“To Keith or the radiator?”

“Honestly, I don’t even know. How long has this thing been broken?”

“A week.”

“Only a week? This thing is ancient! What sort of black magic has the super been employing to keep this thing together?!”

“Your guess is as good as mine. Upside, Red’s become a lot more friendly. I’ll miss him if you fix this thing.” Shiro sighs. “I’d better go talk to Keith-”

“There we go!” The radiator coughs, wheezes, finally hums into life. “Just in time, too, since Keith hasn’t even bothered to put a shirt on. Surprised he’s still alive.”

“Yeah, you and me both. Thanks Katie.” Shiro gives the small woman a kiss on the cheek. “We owe you one.”

“You guys don’t owe me jack. But if you’ve got any cocoa, make me some. With peppermint.”

Shiro chuckles. Pidge divides people into many halves: dog people and cat people, tea people and coffee people, bacon people and losers, and those who like peppermint in their cocoa and those who are boring. These are just a few.

“Hey,” Shiro whispers, putting a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” Keith averts his gaze, nodding half-heartedly.

“Come on, Keith. Lay it on me. What’d you do?” Pidge bounces up and down on the blanket covered couch and yelps, pulling a familiar blue pen from under her butt. “What the hell?”

Keith takes his bottom lip between his teeth. “Remember that guy I told you about?”

“Yeah…” Pidge leans forward, eyes intense and glittering. “Lance McClain, right? Dad founded MCAST? I do my internship at his research division. I see him around from time to time.” Keith nods numbly. “Oh, God, what did you do?”

“He may have been...made available...very suddenly last night.” Keith shifts his feet, suddenly aware of what he might have done to Lance, aware that “may” is an extremely appropriate word to use. “And...he may have ended up here,” he mumbles, studying the floor, linoleum yellowed with age.

“Let me get this straight.” Pidge adjusts her glasses. “You’re telling me that Lance McClain broke up with his girlfriend last night…”

“I think so.” Pidge takes a deep breath, rolling the cheap blue pen in her fingers.

“You think so. Okay. So he _possibly_ broke up with his girlfriend. Last night. Correct?” Keith nods. “And you brought him home, **_assuming_ ** _he was actually single_ , a few hours later. Correct?” Another nod. “And you fucked him. Or vice versa. Whatever. _Correct?_ ” Nod.

Pidge glances at Shiro and meets the older man’s gaze. He nods. “And?” she asks. “What do you think?”

Keith blushes, wrapping his arms tight across his chest. “I like him. We’re the same.”

“The same?” Shiro asks, raising a silver eyebrow.

“We’re both... _bored._ Frustrated, annoyed, tired, and _bored._ I wasn’t expecting it, but...I don’t know.” Keith shrugs. He’s not good with words; he’s terrible, really. “I just...I felt like there was something there. And then he was gone.” His voice is small, he can hear his own vulnerability in it. He’s too old to be acting this way, to be so disappointed when something doesn’t go the way he wants.

Shiro sighs. He’d honestly figured Lance McClain would become a recurring presence, not bits of dust stubbornly worked into the corners of their shabby apartment. After so long and so much between them, Keith’s hurt is his hurt and in this moment, he feels it acutely. Shiro loves his brother more than anything, wants his happiness more than anything. He just isn’t sure it’s within his power to give.

Shiro manages to get a good look at Keith’s face. Dejected, sad, lonely; he pulls his brother into a hug, putting as much love and warmth into the embrace. “Get a shower and get ready for work. I gotta get in there too.”

Keith nods, feeling the warmth from the repaired radiator hovering over his skin. Even standing under the hot water in his shower, he feels the midwinter cold deep in his bones. He wonders if he’ll see summer again.

“Poor guy,” Pidge murmurs. Shiro nods, ruffling the girl’s short, fluffy hair. As he sits down, she snuggles up against his side. “He’s so sweet, too. McClain’s missing out.”

“I know.” There isn’t much else to say on the matter, save perhaps that it broke Shiro’s heart to see Keith so dejected.

“Wanna watch Yuri on Ice?” Pidge asks, giving him a teasing elbow in the side.

“Fuck you,” Shiro says with a half-hearted chuckle. “Put Ouran on instead. I could use a laugh or two today.”

“I feel ya.”

 

“So...you like him,” Allura reaffirms.

“A lot,” Lance admits.

“For how long?” Lance stares down at his fried rice. He’s not quite so hungry all of a sudden. “For how long?” Veronica presses.

“I-I thought just all of a sudden, that night. At first? But then I started remembering all these little things he used to do for me and-”

“What little things?” Acxa interrupts, looking up from her salad.

“Like free desserts and coffee on the house and my table by the window and a few little jokes or samples of whatever the chef is playing with and the way his smile turns real when he sees me and the way he _looks_ at me and it made me think of all the times I wanted his attention and tried to get it even if I didn’t need it and I’ve thought about him a few times outside the restaurant, like, ‘I wonder what Keith’s doing right now’ and looking forward to seeing him on Fridays and that’s normal; I mean-”

“Lance.” Lance turns to her and Veronica is staring at him. “That’s not-That’s…”

Veronica breaks off with a sigh, unwilling to tell Lance the truth. She gives Allura a pleading look and Allura nods, taking Lance’s hand. Allura's the gentle one, the motherly one.

“Lance, that’s not normal. That’s emotional infidelity.”

Lance’s face crumbles. “Is that-that’s not nearly as bad as a normal affair, right? I mean, it _sounds_ bad, but-”

“It’s...It’s worse. Lance, that’s really bad. If you were so unhappy with Nyma that you became emotionally attached to someone else, why didn’t you just break up with her? How long were you dissatisfied?” Allura glances down at Lance’s other hand, watching it spin his plastic fork on the table.

“A-a few months, but...I wanted it to work. I wanted to prove that I could be faithful in a relationship. That I wasn’t just some little slut. That I could grow up and take things seriously. Obviously, I was wrong.”

“Not necessarily.” Veronica picks up Lance’s free hand and gently sets the fork down in his food, a subtle reminder to eat. Lance forgets to eat; he’s become an expert on eating cold food. “If you’re emotionally attached to Keith, maybe you should give him a shot.”

“Or I’ll end up hurting him too. Maybe I’m the one who’s awful. Maybe Nyma isn’t at fault at all-”

“I highly doubt that,” Acxa growls. Since her engagement to Veronica, Axca has become extremely protective of her favorite sibling. Lance offers the woman a grateful smile. He absolutely adores his new sister.

“Okay, probably not, but my track record is, let’s be honest, deplorable. And Keith absolutely does not deserve to be toyed with in any way. Which I’ve already done, in case you ladies have forgotten. Besides,” Lance says, standing to discard a large portion of his lunch. The women follow, all frowning. “I have other concerns to attend to.”

“Tired of being the family pet?” Acxa asks. Lance frowns, expression bordering on a scowl. He doesn’t care for that label any more than he does “accessory." His father loves him; he loves his father. He’s proud to work for MCAST. He imagines something more for himself. It’s complicated.

“More...I think I want to go out on my own. I’m just not certain what I wish to do yet.” Allura nods. She’s comfortable with her decision to take over her late father’s energy company, but understands Lance's frustrations absolutely. “Let’s face it,” Lance says, guiding his family toward the rows of stores. “I’m not...useful. I could do something far more important, even in a small way, than I’m doing right now. I just feel... _bored._  So much idle time, so much pity work. I want more.”

“Honestly, Acxa and I are thinking of going out on our own as well. Maybe start a security firm or something. Communications is so dull.” Lance gives Veronica’s shoulders a grateful squeeze, appreciating her validation. They’ve always been fourth and fifth born; fourth and fifth best. It's no one's fault. That's just how it ended up. “As for Keith, I advise you to sort out your feelings and call Nyma. End things properly, Lance. She might not deserve it, but I expect you to be the bigger person.”

“Right now?”

“Right now. The longer you wait, the uglier things might get.”

Lance nods. He doesn’t want to speak to Nyma ever again. He won’t after today. But he agrees with Veronica’s assessment. His misconduct has gone on long enough. Just this once, he’ll give Nyma the respect he should have given her from the beginning.

 **Lance:** Are you busy?

 **Nyma:** No

 **Lance:** Good. Meet me at the bar on the corner of Naxela and Taljeer.

 **Nyma:** K

 

“So where are you going? I thought you had an appointment today.” Keith walks next to his brother, dressed for his job at Garrison’s. Shiro himself is surprisingly well-dressed: jeans instead of sweatpants, button-down instead of a comic book tee. He's even bothered to dig out his his good coat.

“Rescheduled. I have a job interview. Or offer. Something. A job something.” There’s a pause. “Curtis texted me last night about a job at his bar.”

Keith’s own thoughts, which were revolving solely around a pair of blue eyes and swath of glistening brown skin, are immediately pushed aside. “You’re working at Curtis’ bar.”

“Well...Probably.” There’s a forced level of nonchalance. They stop outside his future place of work -Shiro doesn’t actually have any doubts- and Keith pulls him around, giving him- “That’s your look of absolute disapproval.”

“Do you know why?” Keith crosses his arms, maintaining a deadpan expression minus one subtly raised eyebrow.

“Yes.” Of course Shiro knows why. He knows exactly why. Curtis has been in love with him for almost as long as he’s known the dark-skinned man.

It’s not something that’s been spoken, not nearly in so many words, in many other words, in gestures. It’s spoken through free drinks and a lingering smile and Adam’s jealousy and Curtis sitting next to him on glass-strewn asphalt, next to his overturned car, talking to him calmly, promising that everything will be alright; Curtis sitting next to him on an uncomfortable chair, next to his hospital bed, promising everything will be alright; Curtis keeping himself carefully just within reach. There’s no push or pull, no pressure, no nothing; there’s just a brush against the far corner of his mind, a constant unspoken something that Shiro doesn’t want to name even though he already knows what to call it: A Chance.

Keith sighs. “And you’re okay with this?” Shiro nods, holding his midnight gaze. Keith gives a quick nod of his own. He wants to shake his head. He wants to frown. “If you change your mind, it’s okay. You know that, right? You don’t have to rush anything. You don’t have to be ready yet.”

“I know. I’m ready.” Shiro isn’t at all sure of this. He just knows that he needs to be. He has four years to make up for, and now eight months more. This can’t go on.

As he pulls his older brother into an embrace, a part of Keith knows things have to change; he can’t put off his student loans forever. He’ll be lucky if he can defer another year. Another part of him dreads the day Shiro gets back on his feet. It’s an incontrovertible truth, he realizes as Shiro walks into Curtis’ bar, that his brother is on his way to recovery, to autonomy, and Keith is on his way back to being completely alone.

As Keith heads down the street to Garrison’s, he misses the young woman who glares at him as she enters the bar.

 

Lance feels guilty that he ditched his sisters (Allura absolutely counts), but his promise to follow up with them later eventually earned him leniency. Now, he stands outside of a painfully familiar bar summoning his courage. He’s disappointed in himself. He’d meant to do better and instead, he’s done worse. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t. But he needs to be. It’s complicated. The last twenty-four hours have been complicated.

He needs to uncomplicate this, or it will drive him mad. He needs to be the adult. He needs to grow up and be the bigger person. He needs to end things with Nyma properly if he ever wants to move on to someone else, Keith or no Keith. He enters the bar.

“Hey, Curtis.” Lance glances over to the bar and freezes in place. Shiro sits on the corner of the counter, giving him a flat stare. “Hi...Shiro.”

“Lance! Nice to see you again!” Curtis lights up, icy blue eyes sparkling with high spirits. On anyone else, it would be unsettling. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Got any coffee?” Curtis nods. “Awesome. Add some Kahlua and some Bailey’s to it. Like, make it a third of each.”

“Want some whipped cream on it?”

“Sure. Make it a blow job. I’m feeling slutty.” Lance’s sarcasm oozes from underneath a door he tries his best to keep shut. Curtis nods, starting up the Keurig on the back counter as Lance sits across from Nyma. She stares at him, violet eyes filled with suspicion, hurt, dislike. Lance sighs. “I want to apologize,” Lance murmurs.

“For what, specifically?” Nyma asks, a bitter nip in her voice.

“I didn’t realize. I...I just…” Lance sighs. Words never fail him except when he needs them the most. When he needs them, they slip from his mind like wind through his fingers, or simply aren’t there at all.

“You didn’t realize? How could you not realize?!” Nyma’s voice rises with her frustration. “I realized, everyone realized! You expect me to believe that you didn’t realize how you looked at him?! Do you have any idea how humiliating it’s been, sitting there, week after week while you flirt with the waiter?”

Lance sighs, putting his head down on the table, fidget spinner turning beneath the table. “No. I didn’t. I’m sorry. You don’t deserve this.” Lance puts his hands on the table, still spinning the toy. Nyma stares at it, curling her fingers into fists. “Why were you even still with me?”

“Because I have a _duty_ , Lance! To my family! To my family’s business! And so do you! Or did you forget when you took that desperate slut of a waiter home last night?” Nyma throws herself back with a huff. Lance tightens his jaw, forces himself not to rise to her shot at Keith. He’ll be the adult. “This is just so typical of you, Lance! No sense of self-control, or comportment, or professionalism, or just...God! Anything! Everything! You’re such a child!”

Lance nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. It doesn’t help, tears welling up in his eyes, sliding down his cheeks. “Lance, why are you crying? Stop it. You’re just proving my point.”

He’s frustrated. He’s come here to do the right thing, to be the adult, and he’s being screamed at, ridiculed. He's frustrated with his mistreatment and he’s frustrated with his own frustrated tears. He takes a deep breath. He only has to deal with this for a few more minutes. He’ll be the adult.

“I am _so_ sorry, Nyma. You...You’re not good for me. You hate my hands and my...the problems I have, and that’s no excuse for what I’ve done, but…” Lance shakes his head. “The man from last night. Who was he?”

“His name’s Rolo. We’ve been friends for awhile.” Nyma gives him a level stare, daring him to be angry. He’s furious, but he won’t let it show.

“Do you like him?”

“Yeah, I do. A lot.” There’s a pause. “Do you like Keith?” The accusatory tone is hypocritical, garnished by folded arms, a tilt of the head.

“Very much,” Lance murmurs. He won’t return the stare. Instead, he dries his face and smiles, trying to suppress the warmth beneath his skin. He’ll be the adult.

“Then I think this is the answer, don’t you? We go our separate ways, with separate people, and never speak again, okay?” Lance lifts his gaze to his ex-girlfriend. She really is pretty, smiling with eyes so cold Lance almost shivers. “I’ve had about as much as I can take, duty or no. So I’m done. I deserve better and I will have it, so...”

Lance nods. “I want you to be happy. And you do deserve better than me,” he whispers, taking her hands, kissing them, planting his lies on her skin. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Nyma stares at him suspiciously for a moment, then nods. “You know, you’ve grown up, Lance. When did that happen?”

“Mnh. About an hour ago.” Lance manages to smile at her. “You know something?”

“What?” She lifts a penciled eyebrow.

“I’m really, really sick of Italian food.” Nyma bursts out laughing and Lance gives a false grin. “I honestly don’t think I can eat it ever again.”

“You know something else?”

“What?” It’s Lance’s turn.

“You look awful in a suit. It just doesn’t look right.”

Lance chuckles, taking a sip of his drink. “I know.” He taps his fingers against the mug, noting how Nyma’s disapproving eyes are drawn to the motion. He doesn’t bother to stop them; he doesn’t need to anymore. He’ll find someone else, someone who loves his fingers, his hands. Probably, hopefully, possibly not; he’ll try. “I’m not suited for MCAST, am I?”

“You’re not.” Nyma bites her lip. “I’m gonna be uncharacteristically nice, and you can’t tell anybody, alright?” Lance nods. “You’re not suited to big business. You don’t have the heart for it. Or lack thereof, rather. You’re so warm, Lance. You’re so...good. In general. Inherently. You need to find something that lets you be who you are, and it’s not MCAST. You need your own little slice of the world. For you and someone else. That’s another thing. You’re not going to do well alone, Lance. So go get that skanky waiter’s number.” Lance laughs, hiding his anger, downing the rest of his drink. “And don’t drive home.”

“No worries,” Lance murmurs, helping Nyma out of the booth. “I’ll have the girls pick me up on their way back to the estate. Are you walking?” Nyma nods. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“Yeah, no thanks. I’m gonna go find a different bar and pregame before I meet Rolo at the club.” The tall woman slides out of the booth. “And you’re picking up my tab here. Those drinks weren’t cheap.” Lance nods, not caring enough to argue. It’s a slight against his presence, his lack of authority, lack of power, but he’ll allow it. He’ll be the adult.

“Nyma?”

“Lance?” Nyma looks at him over her shoulder.

“Do you have any regrets?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah. I regret not letting go of you sooner.”

Nyma gives a tiny nod. “I wish you all the best, Lance.” She’s lying, and they both know it, but neither cares enough anymore to say it. Instead, Lance just polishes off her old fashioned and sighs, dragging his hands down his face.

“Hey, buddy. You okay?” Lance looks up just in time to see Curtis stumble on his way into the booth. “Not a word,” the man mumbles, sprawled over the seat.

“Your shins are covered with bruises, aren’t they?” Lance says.

“Yes. Fortunately, I’m dark-skinned, so I can still wear shorts in the summer.” Lance manages a smile. “But nevermind that. Are you alright? She wasn’t exactly nice.” Curtis pops up like a whack-a-mole, ice-blue eyes sparkling with happiness, positivity, and general goodness.

“I’m impressed. Scoot over, you dork. You actually handled that really well.” Curtis obliges Shiro’s request, accommodating the larger man with a cheerful smile. Shiro genuinely looks impressed, much to Lance’s surprise. “How are you feeling?”

Lance heaves a sigh and props his head on his hand, managing an amused smile. “You guys are total dads.” The men raise identical eyebrows and fold their arms. “I’m...I’m fine, actually. Awesome, in fact. I just shook off something terrible and now I’m going to go to Garrison’s and acquire your brother’s phone number whether you condone it or not, so if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going. Keep the change. Use it to take Shiro out on a date.”

Lance slides some cash over to a stuttering Curtis. Then he slips on out of the booth and off into the already fading light of the early evening. There’s a spring in his step, Shiro notices. He shakes his head after him.

“That boy is a disaster,” Curtis mumbles. Shiro barely hears him, his focus taken quite suddenly by the revelation that even beneath that dark skin, Curtis can indeed blush. “I’m a disaster.”

“Most people are,” Shiro murmurs thoughtfully, eyes resolutely re-trained on the spot where Lance’s skipping feet trod but moments before.

“Yeah, let me out.” Shiro nods, climbing out of the booth. Curtis follows, and promptly falls to the floor with a small squeak.

“Curtis Dayal, you are without a doubt the clumsiest person I have ever met in my entire life.” The man in question picks himself up of the floor with a good-natured sigh, brushing off his clothes. His teeth, his eyes sparkle when he turns to Shiro, his lips curling up, hair in ever so slight disarray. Even beneath his dark skin, there’s warm color deepening in his cheeks.

“I really am, aren’t I? I should have you handle all the…” Curtis trails off, looking thoughtful.

“All the what?” Shiro laughs.

“I’m trying to think of anything _I_ can to that doesn’t involve a scenario in which I can trip and fall or drop and break something.”

“And?”

“I’m thinking I stand perfectly still in one spot and have you do everything.” Shiro just shakes his head with a smile. He hasn’t seen Curtis in person in nearly eight months, but the man is exactly the same: clumsy, good-natured, and constantly smiling. Shiro needs a distraction. He’s distracted. It's complicated.

“So what do you think? Of Lance and Keith, I mean?” He’s asked this before; he needs to go through it again, again, again. The more he repeats it, the more he can come to terms with what’s about to happen; he knows how this might end. He knows what he stands to lose.

“Well, he’s a gentleman,” Curtis says with a shrug, washing Lance's mug. “He’s nice, considerate, and clearly, as we just saw, willing to put other people before himself, even if they’re thoroughly unlikable. I bet we’ll see a smile on Keith’s face before the end of the night and every day after.” Curtis offers Shiro a smile. He’s an optimist, which Shiro used to be. Looking at the frowning man before him, he wonders if Keith misses Shiro as much as he does.

“Right. Or he’ll end up at her place tonight. Or someone else’s. I don’t know. I’m not sure I trust him. How can I trust him when he wouldn't even defend Keith when that girl insulted him?” Shiro stares into his beer glass and the door opens, pulling in cold air and the first of the evening crowd. “I don’t. Not with Keith. He’s…”

“He’s all you’ve got left. And you’ve been going back and forth over whether you like Lance or not since you carried a conversation with him this morning. I know this because this is the third time we’ve talked about it.” Curtis regards him for a moment. The prematurely silver hair, the grey ghost eyes, the scars left behind by tragedy; this man is perfect. He’s flawed. He’s flawless. It’s complicated. “Now. Do you want an outside opinion, or do you just want to sit there and argue with yourself?”

Shiro lifts his gaze to the dark-skinned man across the bar and manages a laugh, one that reaches his eyes. He tries not to notice how it reaches Curtis’ eyes too. He notices. He doesn’t. It’s complicated. “I’ll hear you.” _I always hear you._ He always chooses to listen.

“I like Lance McClain. I like the way he looked at Keith last night. I like the way Keith looked at him. I like the way Lance blushed half an hour ago when he mentioned his name. I like how pissed he looked when his ex called Keith a slut. Your concerns are legitimate, but I honestly think you should give him a chance. After all this time, Keith deserves a shot at happiness, don’t you think?”

Shiro looks back down at his empty glass, at the sparkling blue eyes reflected in it, and tries to remind himself that he already had his chance. His chance died eight months ago. His chance is standing on the other side of the counter.

 

Lance takes a deep break before opening the glass doors. He stands in the lobby and takes another, opening the second set of doors that separates the affluent from the frigid chill of dearth midwinter. Romelle looks up from where she’s replacing menus. The young woman’s eyes widen.

“Mr. McClain? We don’t even open for another hour. May I ask what you’re doing here?”

Lance clears his throat. “Is...Keith here?” The words sink in without a moment's pause. Romelle frowns, eyes narrowing, brows contracting, aura chilling. Lance finds he can’t hold her gaze.

“He’s on the second level replacing centerpieces.” Lance nods, proceeding, when there’s a vice-like grip on his arm. “If you hurt him, we will come after you. All of us.”

Lance manages a tired smile. “I suspect I hurt him this morning. I’m here in an attempt to remedy that.” Lance slides his hands into his trouser pockets in an effort to stay their movement. “He’s something special, isn’t he? He has such presence, despite his quiet ways.” The ghost of a midnight laugh breaks through Lance’s sunrise mind. “I hear his voice when he speaks.”

A small smile crosses Lance’s lips, unbidden but not unwelcome. It’s the truth. He’s heard, understood, clung to every word Keith’s ever uttered within earshot. Be it “Good evening” or desperate, whispered pleas in the clandestine dark, Lance has heard every word. It means something. It does. This part isn’t complicated. He slips from Romelle’s grip, from her confused frown, and climbs the staircase to the balcony edging the walls.

Keith arranges the fresh candles with even more apathy that usual. Hunk’s already forced cookies down his throat, Romelle gave him a hug, Shay smiled at him, and Iverson took one look at him and began fixing whatever minute imperfections Keith left at each table on his own.

He must look pitiful, to be succinct.

He doesn’t doubt it; he understands it. Keith got exactly what he expected, exactly what he thought he wanted: a memory with a dash of sugar to take the edge off the bitter aftertaste. But it left some strange new hollowness behind. Or perhaps it simply widened a hollowness that already was; Keith isn’t sure. He regrets taking Lance home. He doesn’t. It’s complicated. It hurts.

Hurt isn’t complicated. Keith’s had too much time to get acquainted. He and hurt are old friends. But he doesn’t usually feel his companion’s presence this acutely. Keith hasn’t felt this aspect before, not by name: disappointment. An orphan, Keith’s known the disappointment of almost belonging before; it’s a constant, something he never put words to because he’d never known it wasn’t supposed to be there. This is different. This is the ache of already belonging, but being unwanted all the same. Keith finds himself wondering if a heart can actually break, if this is what it feels like. He’s not sure; there’s an ache in his chest and he can’t say how it got there or how to get rid of it. It feels like there’s ice in his soul, frost being pushed through his arteries with every quiet beat of his heart.

“Keith?” Keith glances at Iverson to see he’s not looking at him. He’s looking behind Keith with surprise. Keith turns.

He’s there, summer sunlight in clothes rumpled by a winter storm, hair cowlicked by ocean wind, tossed asunder by frozen gales, eyes glittering like moonlight on the waves and Keith knows he put it there; he's left only a temporary mark, a superficial imprint of himself, to be washed away when the man finally finds his way home.

“I’m gonna...go...be somewhere else,” Iverson grumbles under his breath, stomping off to be inconspicuously conspicuous, just within earshot and eyeshot of whatever dance Lance wishes to perform.

“I have your pen,” Keith mumbles, studying the hardwood floor as he pulls a blue pen out of his pocket and crimson finds its way into his cheeks. Lance glances at it. How is he supposed to do this? The man won’t even meet his gaze.

But then, he rarely does, does he? Keith Kogane is shy, Lance remembers. He smiles small smiles, blushes when looked at, hugs himself, holds himself until he seems small and fragile despite a musculature Lance already knows nearly as well as his own; his hands are good at their job.

“Can I…” Lance steps forward, tucking a forefinger under Keith’s chin in an effort to lift his midnight gaze, but he’s met with resistance. “Please? I...I want a chance to do this right.”

His eyes lift, meeting cerulean blue. They’re so warm; blue is so warm. He shivers, the warmth making him feel the cold ever more acutely. Keith feels something unfamiliar stir within him. “Do what right?”

“This. Us.” Lance nibbles his lips, shoves his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t want his hands to wander, not now. “I...I like you. Very much.” Keith’s face warms, reacting to words he’s never once heard in all his life. The something unfamiliar swells into that aching space in his heart, threatening, sweetly promising to fill it. “Maybe we could try again? Properly, this time.”

“H-how do we start properly?” Keith asks, unable to break away; he’s transfixed, taken in. He’s succumbed to Lance and everything this man is, all of his perfections and his perfect flaws.

“I thought we’d start with phone numbers and a date next Friday. I’ll pick you up when you get off and treat you to dinner somewhere that isn’t here.”

“Tired of Italian?” Keith surprises himself with a tease; Lance blanches. It had been meant as a tease, but it came out more like a jab. “Sorry. I-I meant...Words are hard. And I’m really bad at them.” The something unfamiliar fills out the aching hollow, swelling still. What is it called? It’s so familiar in how it’s unfamiliar, as if he’s felt it before and then forced himself to forget.

“It’s okay.” Lance’s hand begins to itch, pushes them deeper into his coat, curling his fingers into his palms. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to. I just thought-”

Keith pulls Lance’s hands out of those pockets. He knows why they’re in there, shoved so forcefully into the depths. He grips the fingers lightly, enough to show he doesn’t want to let go, enough to let Lance go if the man wants. The long, brown thumbs brush against his pale hands.

“I-I’d...I think I’d like that? A lot?” His face is burning, but he forces himself not to look away. He has to. He can’t. It’s complicated. “I don’t know...No one’s ever…”

“If you’re not comfortable, I won’t be upset, Keith. Wait, no, I...I won’t be angry or take it personally. I’ll be sad, but-” Lance huffs in frustration. If only he could use his words for something useful. “Listen, you’re under no obligation to do anything. Only do this if you want to.”

Keith does want to. He’s wanted to from the day, the hour, the moment he met Lance McClain. He smiles, blushes, gives those perfect, blessed hands a gentle squeeze. “I want to,” he whispers. “I-I really, really want to.” What is it called? What is it called? There’s a word he’s blocked out, that he’s cast aside in favor of survival. But it’s there, filling out that empty space, nesting in it, brooding in it, fertile, delicate. _What is it called?_

Keith watches Lance’s face light up, clouds parting to bathe the world in golden light. Worth it; this man is worth it. Keith releases one of Lance’s hands to pull out his phone, offering it to the slender Cuban. Lance offers his own in return. Phones are switched and switched again, and Keith needs to return to work.

Lance sighs. “I suppose you have to get back to work.” Keith nods. “Alright. I’ll...Keith?” Those amethyst eyes find his, large, deceptively, genuinely innocent. “Can I kiss you?” That angelic face nods, and Lance leans in. _What is it called?_

It’s chaste, all things considered, things including the hickeys on their necks, Keith’s painted over by a skillful Romelle. A pair of hands finds Keith’s waist, a chest presses against his, a pair of lips brush against his own. He sighs into the contact. It’s warm; it’s so warm. He’s so warm. Keith wraps his arms around that warmth as much as he can, wishing it could stay. It can’t. He has to get back to work. He pulls away, noses still touching. _What is it called?_

“I really have to get back to work,” Keith whispers. Lance can hear the regret in Keith’s voice, taste it on his tongue. He presses his forehead against the smaller man's.

“I know. And I have to go appease my sisters. I ditched them. Deadass.” Keith chuckles, a soft twilight laugh that soothes Lance’s many aches. “I’ll talk to you on Friday?”

“You can talk to me before then, if you want. You have my number.” Keith might not talk back too much, but he’ll try. He swears he’ll try. “I’d like it if you did. If you want to…”

Keith trails off, blush deepening, and Lance kisses him again. “I’d love to. I will. It’s a promise. It’s a date.” Lance punctuates each sentence with a tender kiss to his lips, presses one last smiling kiss before he drifts away. “I’ll see you around, Keith.”

“See you around,” Keith whispers, wrapping his arms around himself, holding in warmth as Lance steps back and sails away. He misses the other man already. A shy smile crosses his lips, body slightly warmer in the wake of walking summer. _What is it called?_

“You guys are so cute,” Iverson growls, an uncharacteristic tease lacing his tone.

“Oh, shut up, sir,” Keith murmurs, barely suppressing a grin. Iverson raises an eyebrow. Perhaps there’s more bite in his head waiter than he thought. He knows there's more bite, or was. He'd just assumed it was gone now.

Keith listens to the footsteps fade. He smiles. The warmth is still there, under his skin. For the first time in years, he finds himself looking forward to something. It's not complicated.  _What is it called?_

_What is it called?_

_Oh, yeah._

**_Hope._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns, cries of outrage, threats on my life? Great! I thrive on attention so drop me a comment below!


	3. Whiskey. Neat.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time apart does not mean time wasted.

“So why did you want me to come with you to the club last night? I love you and Acxa very much, but third-wheeling in my position wasn’t exactly fun.” Lance takes a sip of his coffee, knowing the caffeine won’t help him focus, won’t help his hands. Oh, but he loves the taste, the versatility, the heat. He loves the added warmth in the dead of midwinter.

“It’s not like you and Keith are dating. Yet. You could’ve danced and fooled around if you’d wanted to.” To Veronica’s surprise -and pleasure- Lance flinches, nose wrinkling, mouth twisting in disgust. Veronica smiles. Lance gives her a pointed look. The smile fades, apprehension rearing its head yet again.

“We...have a problem.” Lance raises an eyebrow at Veronica. “We think Lotor is stalking us.” Lance freezes, a bite of omelette halfway to his mouth.

“What?” Lance is a peaceful man, not at all confrontational by nature, but now his fingers curl tightly around his fork, around the fidget cube in his lap. His teeth grind together, working civility past his anger. The plastic in his fist creaks, buttons compressed. “I thought Acxa shook him.”

“So did we. So did her friends. But we...Lance, we keep seeing him. Out of the corners of our eyes. I don’t know if maybe we’re paranoid, maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe-”

“It’s not,” Lance whispers, setting down his fork. The edge in his voice is razor sharp, laser-focused. “You know that it’s not.” Veronica sighs.

“No, it’s not. But we really, really want it to be. She...Acxa got her and the girls out. That should be it. It should be over.” Veronica forces another bite of breakfast into her mouth. It tastes like ash and worries. “We don’t want trouble. We just want to get married, have some kids, be happy. And now…”

“There has to be something you can do.” Lance, following Veronica’s lead to keep eating, takes another sip of coffee. “I mean, get a restraining order, something.”

“We don’t have any proof. That, and he’s a slippery, sociopathic bastard.”

“Here’s what we’re going to do. I will continue to third-wheel, or, depending on how things go, we’ll do double-dates, alright? If I’m not available, take Allura, Ezor, and Zethrid. In the meantime, we’ll figure something out, alright?” Veronica heaves a sigh, frustrated. She doesn’t want this, Lance knows. She wants to go on adorable coffee dates, tease her fiancee about her taste in wardrobe, look at cute boys together. She doesn’t want to live in fear. Lance takes her hand over the table, running his thumb over the ring on her finger. It’s not extravagant. A simple, elegant piece for a simple, elegant promise, the small diamonds glitter in the blue light of the bay window. Lance envies, hopes for that promise. He’s afraid of being alone, dreads it.

“Hey. We’ll deal with this, alright? You and Acxa have an army of people around you who love you and will literally throw hands for you guys. You deserve it, Acxa deserves it, Ezor and Zethrid deserve it. They’re not going back and Lotor’s going down, alright?”

“Are you going to be our protector, Lance? Will you be our paladin?” Veronica smiles at him, her own spark reflected in her twin brother’s eyes. The youngest McClains are far more familiar with luxury than with hardship, but there’s a certain fight, a spirit that comes from having to struggle to get where they are.

Veronica and Lance share few memories of the time before MCAST; just a few flashes of a living room floor bare of furniture, covered in blankets and pillows, peeling walls, cracked, curling linoleum, hand-me-the-fourth-time-down clothes, backpacks held together with duct tape, beans and rice for dinners on end, the novelty of chicken or pork, free school breakfasts, school lunches. Little though those memories are, they make the McClain twins strong. They make them fierce- even Lance, even if he seems like he lives in a world all his own, bereft of anything more threatening than a friendly smile.

“I’m whatever you need me to be, Vero. You know that.” Veronica gives his hand a squeeze and returns to her breakfast, Lance obediently following her lead, pressing buttons on the toy in his lap.

They’re trying something new today. Every time Veronica takes a bite, so too does Lance. Lance wonders what he’ll do if no one is here to eat with him, wonders what he’ll do if Veronica and Acxa move off the estate, if no one is there to remind him to eat, drink, do everyday basic tasks. His thoughts are interrupted by the key code being punched in at the front door.

“Mijo, are you here?” Leo McClain enters through the foyer of Lance’s house. He’s old now, slightly stooped from years of hard work, with brown eyes, a wrinkled visage, a bright smile in every sunlit crease of his face.

“Buenos dias, papi.” Lance gets up to pull out a chair for his father.

“Oh, thank you, mijo. Buenos dias. Buenos dias, mija.” Veronica smiles at her father, giving Lance a warning look that tells him not to mention her stalker. The warning isn’t needed, because _of course_ he knows a secret when he hears one, but Lance’s history suggests otherwise.

“What do you need, papi? Can I help you with something?” Leo gives his youngest son a fond smile.

“First, some coffee, por favor. Then, I’m afraid I need your assistance.” Lance hurries to get his father some coffee. Leo McClain gets whatever he wants, so far as Lance is concerned, so far as Lance is capable. Be it coffee or a new business partner, Lance has always done everything within his power to ensure his father gets it. Most of the time, he succeeds; some of the time, he gets in his own way. It’s complicated.

“Here you are. Now, what can I do for you?” Leo McClain takes a sip of his coffee and regards his youngest son, his youngest child by eleven minutes. Tall, slender, still a boy at the age of twenty-four, carrying a reputation in certain circles. It’s a reputation that Leo needs his son to change.

“There has been an outbreak of the flu among my cargo pilots. I need you to fly this week. Tonight, you leave. Tomorrow, you’ll be in Japan. Tuesday, in Germany. Wednesday, in China. Thursday, in Denmark. Friday, South Korea. Saturday, in France and then home. There was some sort of error and our new, location-based tech ended up in the wrong ports. I want you, mijo, to rectify this mistake yourself. Be the face of the company, apologize for the confusion, ensure our ports have their proper equipment. Everything has been carefully arranged. All you have to do is fly and be a McClain. James Griffin has already been briefed on how to handle the rest.”

Lance’s heart sinks. He won’t return until Saturday. He has a date on Friday. These are the situations that he hates, the situations where someone must end up unhappy. The worst part is, he already knows who he’ll choose. He catches Veronica’s eye and sees the sympathy nestled there. He spins his fork on the table, watching it wobble on the tines, precarious, delicate, unable to stand on its own. This is a test. Everything is hanging in the balance.

“Mijo, I know this is a lot. For anyone. But I’m getting older and it’s just too much for me to do. I’m asking you to be the face of MCAST.”

“You don’t have to beg, papi.” Lance manages a smile. “I will of course handle this for you.” Lance stands up with his and Veronica’s plates and Leo stands, gives his son a hug. He can tell that Lance has something he’d rather do, has plans for the week. It hurts, if he’s honest, to take away from his son’s happiness. It hurts, too, to admit to his child that he’s grown old. A week-long exodus of this magnitude will be grueling for a twenty-four-year-old. At the age of sixty-seven, it’s an insurmountable ordeal. Fortunately, Alejandro “Lance” McClain had chosen to become a pilot.

Leo smiles at his legacy, looking back at him with the blue eyes of Leo’s own father, bright and beautiful. Leo doesn’t have a favorite child, but he does have a special connection with Lance. Watching his youngest son struggle, blaming his son for those struggles, coming to terms with the fact that his child’s problems were entirely out of their control, and finally, finally nurturing his son so he could thrive is by far Leo’s greatest achievement to date. It isn’t even his achievement; Leo had just been a guiding hand.

“Thank you, mijo. Much appreciated.” Lance forces a smile and steps past his father to the sink. He won’t let his father see him unhappy. “I’ll see you later, yes?”

“Mmh. Yes, of course. I’ll get my things together and then I need to make a call. As soon as it’s time, I’ll meet with Griffin and we can get everything squared away.”

“Good boy. Alright. Adios, mijos. I’ll see you both later.”

“Adios, Father.”

“Adios, papi.”

Veronica gives Lance a pointed look and Lance sighs, shoulders sagging. He hopes Keith can understand.

 

Shiro lies silent while Keith makes a call. He’s not sure what it’s about, but there’s much cursing involved, followed by a long time on hold, followed by more cursing. He’s staring at a piece of paper, brows furrowed, mouth turned down, shoulders weighed down by some still unknown burden.

“Hi, I’m calling about a deferment. I’ve been denied and I was hoping to speak to someone to see if we could reach some kind of agreement.” Shiro swallows hard, shrinking down under the blankets as Keith rattles off his information. Shiro curls around himself, insides writhing like a bal of eels. Panic scuttles beneath his skin like long-legged spiders. It takes all of his control not to move.

“Yes, I’m calling about my deferment. I need-…No, I-…I know, but, c’mon. Look, I’ve got something else on my ledger now. It’s only another year…It’s just until my brother gets back on his feet…No, he’s not a dependent-No…No…There has to be something you can do. I was paying over the minimum before-…I know, but-…You’re sure there’s nothing?” The shoulders slump further, defeat only adding to the weight of burden. “No, I-I understand…Yes, thank you for your time…’Bye.”

Keith slams his phone down on the table with a curse, leaning on the flimsy structure. It’s a card table from a Salvation Army. He glares down at the torn vinyl top, eyes the cracked plastic lawn chairs, scowls at the mismatched, chipped, secondhand plates, cups, glasses, bowls, silverware littering the cupboards and counter.

It’s a visual reminder of what the real problem is. Two part-time jobs isn’t cutting it. He can’t get another deferment and he can’t afford to pay off his student loans _and_ support his brother. He knows what he can’t do; He doesn’t know what he _can_ do. He’s trapped in an uncomfortable dream that’s beginning to turn into a nightmare. Keith grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes, pushes the beginnings of frustrated tears back into his eyes until there are voids of light dancing behind his lids.

There’s definitely nothing he can do right now except go see what produce is on sale. They could suffer to eat a vegetable or two, even if it’s frozen. In the meantime, he’ll figure out how to fix this mess. At least he has something to look forward to, a ray of sunshine in eternal winter.

As he pulls on his insufficient leather jacket, he gazes at his brother, still asleep on the couch, face tucked away, hidden from the world. Keith feels like screaming, fighting, crying, but he doesn’t have the time, the energy to spare. He wishes, suddenly, painfully, that Adam were here to fill out the corners of their tiny apartment with smiles, to be far too affectionate with Shiro on his ratty couch, to offer advice that Keith hadn’t even known he needed. He wishes Adam were here to be the adult so Keith can take a break, even if only for a moment. He’s so tired. He’d wanted more than this. This is all he can see for miles and miles, for years and years.

Adam isn’t here. He’s gone, and Keith never realized just how much the man had meant to him, to both of them. He’d known Adam meant a lot, however, and he wishes he’d bothered to tell him as much while he was here.

“I’ll take care of you. Don’t you worry.” Shiro doesn’t stir. It’s for the best.

There are footsteps, followed by the door opening and closing. Shiro lies there for a long while after Keith leaves, heart shattering, reforming over and over again. His brother deserves better than this. Shiro can do better than this. He has to.

It’s a promise, Keith knows, even if it’s unspoken; he’ll take care of his brother. It’s as sure and unmoving as the pavement beneath his feet as he heads to the Dollar General Market for frozen vegetables and cheap beans and rice and discount frozen meat. He’ll pick up some of those strawberry shortcake icecream bars Shiro likes so much, if he has enough leftover. The vibrations in his back pocket cut through his thoughts. Lance.

“Hi, Lance.” He doesn’t know what else to say, and so leaves it at that.

“Hello, Keith.” His voice sounds overcast, not the summer Keith is so fond of. “I have a problem. I’m needed to fly this week. Like, all week? I won’t be back until Saturday night.”

“Oh.” The pavement slipping beneath his feet falls away; gravity ceases to work and Keith finds himself drifting out of orbit. “That’s okay. I-I understand.”

“My father asked me if I could handle something for him. Some kind of tech mix-up, deliveries got scrambled up. Since I’m his son, I suppose it looks slightly less awful if I’m the one who rectifies the mistake. That and I...I think he’s testing me.” There’s a pause, pregnant, heavy with some unspoken thought, unspoken fear, unspoken truth. “I'm not certain, but I'm pretty sure there are easier ways of fixing this... If it weren’t my father asking, I wouldn’t do it but...he’s the reason I have what I have, and-”

“Lance.” Keith forces a smile to his lips, hopes it finds its way into his voice. “It-It’s okay, Lance. I get it.” Keith hesitates, wrapping an arm around his middle. “If...If you ever want to...meet up...at some point…” He really hopes this isn’t Lance’s way of backing out. This is probably Lance’s way of backing out…

“What? Of course I want to reschedule! Wh-Wait. Did you think this was an out?” Keith winces. His shoulders lift to cover his ears, which is fine, given they offer some respite from the midwinter chill.

“I don’t know. Maybe? I don’t know-” Someone shoves him out of the middle of the sidewalk and into the wall. “I haven’t ever done this before.” He settles up against the wall.

“Wait. Done what, exactly? Dated, or... _everything,_  because the other night, I-” There’s note of horror, and Keith feels Lance’s panic transfer into his own soul, into his skin. His cheeks burn against the cold.

“No! No! I-I’ve done... _that_ before. Just...I’ve never actually been on a date...or even tried, so…” With every admission, Keith’s voice grows weaker; the warmth in his cheeks deepens, spreads over his skin. His words fade away, his defense of his own social ineptitude lost on his tongue, waiting for Lance’s judgement. There’s stretch of soul-stifling silence.

“Keith, I would be delighted to reschedule. Perhaps Saturday? Same plan, different day? Would that be alright?” Lance is kind -too kind-, so very understanding, so gentle, his voice like honeysuckle on Keith’s own tongue. Keith smiles, blush shifting, gathering in different places as embarrassment gives way to pleasure.

“That works fine. I’d be happy with that.” Keith’s feet shuffle, worn bottoms of his shoes slipping a little in a dirty patch of ice. He wonders if the passersby notice his blush, his smile.

“Wonderful! Maybe I’ll call you when I have a free moment, hmm? You might be busy, but if not, perhaps we can chat.” Keith smiles a little wider, wrapping his free arm around himself again, not for comfort this time. He tries to hold his feelings in; they make him vulnerable. He remembers this lesson acutely, painfully.

“I’m not busy right now, if you want to keep talking. Just buying groceries.”

“Sure! I’m just packing my things, so I’m free for a little bit, then I need to go and micromanage some people to make sure everything gets done to my standards. But hey, we’ve got some time. Do you want to hear about the time Vero and I were burning leaves with a magnifying glass and accidentally lit the sewer on fire?”

It isn’t the same, Keith realizes some minutes later. Lance’s voice is in his ear as he walks through Dollar General Market, but his eyes aren’t sparkling in front of him, his face isn’t lit up like a morning sunrise, and he can’t see his hands. Keith misses those hands. Nevermind how they feel when they’re running over his flesh in the dark; he misses watching them talk. It’s such a fundamental part of Lance as Keith understands him that there’s a space in his vision where those hands should be.

One week; he only has to endure one week until he can see Lance McClain, his precious eyes, his precious smile, his precious hands again with his own eyes.

It’s going to be one long week.

 

Curtis is surprised when Shiro shows up. He’d half expected a text saying it wasn’t going to work out and half expected to hear nothing at all and also half expected to see the man himself right on time to tell him this would be his last night. So when he arrives with his old resolve in his eyes at eleven in the morning, Curtis, bedhead, pajamas, and all, (shamelessly doing paperwork behind the counter) isn’t sure what to think.

“Hey, man. How’s it going? You’re...very early.”

“How much am I getting paid? If I decide I want in.” Curtis’ smile wavers for a second before he replaces it. Is that all there is?

“Five dollars an hour, plus tips.”

“Are the tips decent?”

“Have been in my experience.” Shiro stares at him for a moment, then sinks onto a stool, laying his head down on the counter. “Are you okay?”

Shiro offers a sound somewhere between a sigh and a groan. “Overheard Keith trying to defer his loans for another year. Between trying to pay my hospital bills and therapy and food and rent and amenities, I _know_ things are slipping through the cracks. My medical bills probably haven’t been touched, and everything else is hurting. I honestly have no idea how he’s managing.” Curtis nips at his lower lip. “I’m a terrible big brother.”

“Shiro, you are a magnificent older brother. God only knows what would have happened to Keith without you.”

“‘God only knows?’ Aren’t you Hindu?”

“It’s a phrase. And I don’t practice.” Curtis slides a beer across the bar to one of his regulars. “Do you want me to be nice, or do you want me to be honest?” Shiro lifts his head and offers a tired, grateful smile.

“Can you try to be both?”

Curtis rubs his friend on the arm, squeezing affection into the man’s shoulder. It’s his prosthetic arm, but Curtis doesn’t care. It’s an integral part of the man before him, as is his gentility, his peace, his pain. “I can try...You need to get yourself together. As amazing -and stubborn- as we both know Keith is, he can’t do this forever. Working the way he is, sooner or later, he will break. He’s keeping it all together on restless sleep and sheer willpower now.”

“And he wants a relationship with Lance. They have a date.” Shiro doesn't think he'll ever forget the wide smile on Keith's face when he got him last night. Keith had actually waited up for him to tell him.

“He’s actually going to kill himself. And that’s before we get to ruining his credit.” Curtis carefully places one of his dark hands on Shiro’s golden one. “Come work for me, Shiro. At least let me help you. Let me do this much.”

Shiro heaves a heavy sigh, finally meeting Curtis’ gaze. He manages a smile. Anything more than work is too much to ask, but this is a good start. Curtis smiles back, eyes shining like the moon over ice and Shiro finds himself marveling at the rarity of the man before him. Something shifts aside the gray pall draped over his mind, letting in a breath of spring.

“Okay.” Shiro slides down from the stool and embraces his old friend. “Thank you,” he murmurs, resting his forehead on the slope of the shorter man’s shoulder. “You’ve no idea how much this means to me. Thank you.”

Curtis returns the embrace. An only child, Curtis can’t imagine having a brother, can’t imagine having to lean on the thing you’re supposed to support. He can’t begin to understand the position Shiro and Keith are in, the loss Shiro is still processing, the responsibility Keith has undertaken. He can’t even fathom how they’ve gotten this far all on their own, with hardly a friend in the world. All he can do is support them in any way he can, be proud of how far they’ve gotten.

He can and he will. He is.

 

Lance is sitting on his bed, bag forgotten, uniform half on, talking away. “Marco is the worst. He might be all grown up now and look like he was born wearing a suit, but some of the things he dared me and Vero to do were just awful.”

“Like what?” Lance can hear the laughter in Keith’s voice. It makes him smile even more.

“So many things. He once dared me and Vero to ride our bikes down the double playground slide.” Lance smiles at Keith’s laughter, dark and sweet. “I went first, but Vero caught up to me, and our bike handles locked and we fell. She broke her wrist. I was so scared we would get in trouble, but mamá mostly yelled at Marco for even suggesting the idea. Not that we got off scot free, but still, Marco got the worst of it.”

Lance checks his watch. It’s almost time to go. He grimaces, puts his phone on speaker, finishes getting ready to go. He doesn’t want to go. He does. It’s complicated. “What about you? Got any stories from when you and Shiro were kids?”

“A few. More than we should, given our situation. We’re lucky we weren’t sent to different homes, honestly.”

“Tell me one? Please?” There’s a twilight chuckle on the other end of the phone.

“Okay, just...let me think. Most of our dumb shit was low-key, but I know there are a few good ones...Okay, this one time, we TP’ed the high school bully’s tree. Then I set the toilet paper on fire, and we ran. By the time we got to the top of the hill, the entire tree was on fire. I don’t know what it is about kids and fire, but that tree was beautiful.” Lance throws his head back in laughter as he throws travel soaps into his duffel. High maintenance though he can be, he rarely brings more than a carry on with him when he flies. “I do a lot of stupid shit when I’m bored, honestly. I once nuked a pen for two minutes and ruined the microwave. Another time, I folded a foil gum wrapper into a horseshoe and stuck it in an electrical socket. Nearly burned down the library.”

“Why would you think that’s a good idea?” Lance laughs, searching his house for his keys. Right. They’re on the hook by the door, the one labelled ‘keys,’ right next to the little tray labelled ‘wallet.’ His wallet isn’t there. Lance sighs and tracks down yesterday’s suit, set carefully aside for the help to tend. Recovering the slim bit of leather from the pocket, he withers a little inside. How is he to live if he can’t follow his own rules? He can’t remember to follow them. He’ll find a way. He has to.

“I...didn’t. I knew it was a bad idea. I just did it anyway. I was bored.” Lance can practically hear the shrug. He wishes he could see it. His smile drifts slowly back onto his face.

“I tend to get really annoying when I’m bored. And I get into trouble. The pen and the gum wrapper are decent examples. But also exploring attics and falling in the lake and-”

“The lake?”

“Y-yes. We have a lake. Our entire property is situated around a lake.” Lance squirms as he gets into his favorite car. “And then we each have a house and we have canoes and um...some other stuff.” There’s a stretch of silence as Lance waits for Keith to make a comment. What does his far less privileged...companion...think of his life? Lance is not a fool, despite the words of others, despite first impressions. He’s aware that life has given him far more than it has Keith, just as he’s aware of a creeping guilt whenever he pictures that empty, crowded apartment. It’s not his fault, he’s intellectually aware. His affluence is not at Keith’s expense, but there’s an uneasy squirm in his gut all the same. He’s comfortable in his wealth; he’s uncomfortable in the poverty and struggle of others. It’s not complicated.

“That’s...insane. Your family owns a lake?” Lance bites his lip as he starts his car.

“A-a small one, but yes. Also, some forest.”

“I’ve been to a forest once! On a field trip. I did extra chores to be able to go. Worth it.” _I’ve been to a forest once!_ Lance cringes as he passes the gates of the estate -more of a complex, really-, as the words echo in his brain. It’s Keith’s voice, more than anything else. That eagerness to snatch onto any fraying thread he can find to relate to Lance and his world.

“You liked the forest?” Lance asks.

“Yeah. It was quiet and green and it smelled nice. Way better than the city. You forget there’s anything else, sometimes. It’s always grimy and loud and everything is gray. Not like the forest…” Lance smiles. It's taken about two hours, but Keith is finally starting to talk, a spark of eagerness, of joy in being heard spicing his words. The little trail of words tells him that Keith has more to say, but has fallen into a habit of silence. Lance wonders who sealed his thoughts away. Perhaps Keith did it himself.

“I’ll take you sometime, if you like. If we go now, we can skate on the lake as well. I’m sure we can find an old pair of skates to fit you. The forest is full of snow right now, but it’s still really nice. You can see the moon through the branches if it’s not cloudy.” Lance pulls into the airport staff parking and turns off his car, settling, unwilling to leave.

“I...I’d really like that. It’d be nice to get away from the city for a while.” The earnesty in Keith’s voice is bittersweet, the longing of it settling on Lance’s tongue, getting stuck in his teeth, catching in the back of his throat. “But only if you want, obviously,” the other man rushes out, possibly worried about overstepping. He needn’t be. Lance already intends to give this man anything and everything within his reach, out of Keith’s reach. Whatever he wants, Lance will give it to him.

“We will absolutely do that.” Lance sighs and gets out of his car, taking his duffle from the small trunk. “I have resources to excess, Keith. If you want for anything, you have but to ask, and it will be yours.” There’s silence on the other end. Lance knows Keith will ask for little, if anything at all. The man has a great deal of pride, of hard-earned independence and Lance will not overstep. Besides, it’s a heavy promise to make to a man he’s spent only a night with. Of course, it’s not ‘only a night’ to Lance. It’s almost nothing; it’s far more than that. It’s complicated.

“McClain!” Lance turns to see Griffin coming toward him. “Are you coming or what?”

“Yes, Griffin! Sorry!” He sighs. “I have to go, I’m afraid. Time to get ready for takeoff. I’ll call when I can, alright?”

“Alright. See-Uh, talk to you later.” There’s reluctance in Keith’s voice. It tastes of copper, of iron, of rust on Lance’s tongue.

“You’ll see me soon enough,” Lance murmurs, looking forward to Saturday more than he cares to admit.

“Yeah, see you Saturday. ‘Bye.”

“Goodbye.” _I’ll see you soon enough._ Pocketing his phone, Lance turns to Griffin. “What still needs doing?”

“Absolutely nothing,” the man says. “We’ve just got to sit around and wait to be ready to leave. So...was I interrupting something?” Griffin’s sly, smug smirk tells Lance he already knows.

“Yes, but that’s alright. Is the boss here?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure he’ll be here to see you off. Didn’t sound like you were talking to Nyma.” Lance smiles as he joins his copilot and friend of six years on top of a shipping crate. Griffin is...direct. Sometime, he’s outright rude, difficult to work with, obnoxious, egotistical. Lance doesn’t mind him. They have an understanding of one another. Lance understands Griffin’s insecurities and fragile pride and Griffin understands Lance’s fidgeting and excessive talking. He understands the other things too, is good enough to help Lance when he needs it.

“Nyma and I are over.” Lance says.

“Finally. So who’s the new girl?” Heavens, but Griffin is candid, nosy.

“His name is Keith.”

“He nice?”

“Very.”

“Cute?”

“Beautiful.”

“Nice.”

“Right?” There’s a pause. It’s not pregnant, awkward, expectant. It just is, peaceful, calm, relaxed...for all of thirty seconds. Then Lance begins to squirm, struggling to maintain the atmosphere in wake of all the words pushing on his lips. Griffin relents once he starts kicking their shipping crate with his heels.

“How’d you meet?” Lance launches into the story, beginning with the phrase, ‘So eight months ago’ and Griffin settles back to listen as they watch the snow-laden clouds roll by.

 

Keith pushes open the door of Curtis’ bar. He’s freezing from the inside out and just wants to get out of the cold for a little while. He really needs a new coat, new clothes, new shoes; it can wait. It's been waiting.

“Hey, Ryan,” Keith says, waving a hand at the daytime bartender. “Nadia.” The girl waves back brightly. Ryan gives him a nod. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, man. What’s up?” Curtis says with a smile. He likes Keith a lot. When Shiro first came here with Adam, they were arguing over whether or not to try and keep fighting for him. Curtis spent the next four years wondering what was so damn special about an angry kid with bad social skills. He doesn’t wonder anymore.

“Not much. Rescheduled a date. You?”

“Mnh. Not much. Why the reschedule?” Shiro asks.

“Lance has to fly. Like, all week.” Keith frowns.

“Seriously? He can’t take Friday off?”

“His father asked him to do it,” Keith explains, avoiding Curtis’ gaze. Curtis sighs. Keith almost never meets his gaze. “Lance said something about it being a test…”

Curtis turns to Shiro to see his own confusion mirrored there. What kind of a test could it be, that a young man needs to fly over land and sea for an entire week?

“Well, I’m sure he has his reasons,” Shiro says, giving Keith’s shoulder a squeeze. Keith doesn’t meet his brother’s gaze either. Instead, the young man fixes his eyes upon a scratch in the wooden countertop. “And he rescheduled, so he must still be interested.” Keith hums in response. “Keith? Hey, are you okay?”

Curtis watches as Keith tears his gaze away from the countertop, eyes dark, glistening with tragedy.

“Shiro, I’m sorry.” It’s a whisper, more a sigh that happened to contain words. Shiro’s grip on his brother’s shoulder, his own jaw, his chest, tightens. His brother shouldn’t have this guilt, this responsibility. He’s carried a burden meant for two far too long now.

“No, Keith,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. You’ve done more than enough, okay? You need to pay your loans and I need to pay my way.”

Keith’s large eyes widen. “You know-”

“I know.” Keith sighs, falling forward, head resting against his brother’s chest. He’s so tired, if he’s being honest. Tired inside and out, he can hardly imagine anything, comprehend anything, outside of measuring his time. He measures how long until he needs to be at Coran’s, how long until he can go home and scrub the grease and oil out of his skin, how long until he needs to be at Garrison’s, how long until he can sleep. When he gets home, he can’t sleep. There’s too much to worry about, too much that needs doing, too much that he can’t get done.

It wouldn’t be so bad, Keith thinks, if he had something to balance it out. Instead, all he does is work and scrape by, work and scrape by, work and scrape by. He can’t take much more. He can’t do this anymore. He can keep going forever. It’s complicated.

“I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry, Keith.”

Keith’s breath hitches in spite of himself as his brother wraps his arms around him, squeezing him. “I’m so tired, Shiro.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“I miss you.” The words tumble forward on  a winter breeze, escaping before Keith can swallow them, before he can shore his defenses, erect layers to keep in the cold. He feels that breeze catch in his brother’s lungs, chilling the air and covering his heart in a layer of frost. The cold breeze nips at the corners of his eyes and they sting, gathering saltwater. “I...I miss you,” the same wind sighs again.

“I miss you too, buddy.”

Curtis watches as some unknown weight slips from Keith’s shoulders. _The weight of the world,_ he imagines. He hopes that these two can get firmly on their feet, stand tall, if not unburdened, then at least with their backs straight and heads held high.

 

Monday

“Come on, now Keith. Ask me anything! I’m bored. Flying is boring and Griffin won’t let me do any more jumping jacks!” Keith works on replacing the tires on an Expedition. It’s dull work, hence the earbuds and conversation.

“Who’s Griffin?” he asks, detaching a third stripped tire. How this vehicle had been made it to the shop is beyond his capacity to understand.

“He’s my friend and copilot. He’s a sociopath, so he doesn’t understand my need for constant stimulus.” Keith’s mouth quirks up into a smile. “I love him to death, but he’s so _awful_!”

A new voice says, “No, but I bet your new boyfriend understands my need not to watch you do jumping jacks for twenty minutes while you run your mouth. Pick one or the other, man.” Keith chuckles, amused. This Griffin character certainly seems to know Lance quite well. “Go on, Keith. Ask him a question so he’ll sit down. He’s driving me nuts. All hyper and running his mouth.”

Keith can’t help the undoubtedly ridiculous smile crossing his lips. Pidge walks over, hands on her hips, shaking her head. Ridiculous, he’s sure. “Alright. I’ll ask a question. Um…”

“Who’s the easiest man in the universe?” Pidge whispers. “I’ll give you a hint. It’s you.” Keith blushes, averting his gaze, giving the brand new tire in his hands a baleful glare. Keith isn’t ‘easy’. Is he?

“What’s your favorite color?” Keith asks, simply because he already knows the answer.

“Easy. Blue.” It’s obvious. Lance is the color of the sea and sky, the pale blue of early morning and the deep blue of the ocean’s abyss, the endlessness of indigo space and the finity of a cloudless summer reflected in a puddle. “What’s yours?”

“Red.” Keith smacks Pidge’s hand away as she pokes him, no doubt bored and wanting attention. He hands her a dollar store receipt with a logic problem scribbled on it. “Your turn to ask a question.”

“If you were a ghost, what would you do?” Keith laughs out loud at the question, and a sparkling giggle answers on the other end.

“Hmm…” Keith tightens the bolts on the last tire. He’s almost done. “I’d want to fuck with someone, obviously. But not in big ways. In little ways. Like, if they had those socks with the pictures on them, I’d hide one of them in weird places. I’d move their soap. Put their glass on the far end of the coffee table when they’re not looking. Open doors for them. Take things back out a few minutes after they put them away. If they have long hair, I’d hide their hair ties all over their house. Just enough for them to notice, but not enough to really freak them out. You?”

“I think I would make for a very sad ghost. I’d feel the need to stay and watch over my family, but I’d also have to watch them miss me, y’know?” Keith knows. Granted, he’s learned only recently, but he’s seen what it looks like when a piece of your life, your heart, your core, is taken far too early. “But it would be worth it to make sure they’re safe. I’d make sure they knew I loved them. Your turn.”

On it goes through Keith’s shift and all the way through his walk home, his shower, his walk to Garrison’s. On and on he talks and listens, listens and talks. It’s not so bad. He blushes more often than not, smiles more often than not. Keith misses those hands more than he dares to admit, but he dedicates himself to learning the many shades of blue in Lance’s voice, the clear, the partly cloudy moments of his thoughts, his life. Keith finds himself spending several hours bathing beneath an endless summer sky.

 

Tuesday

“Tequila. Three each.” It’s the woman, Nyma, Shiro thinks. She’s here with a man with dirty blonde hair, submissive, quiet, obedient, still; the exact opposite, Shiro realizes, of Lance McClain. He nods and prepares the drink without comment.

Behind him, Shiro can all but _feel_ Curtis’ frown, feel him seething. As far as Curtis is concerned, this woman was in the way of Keith’s happiness, which means it’s perfectly acceptable to pout -because he’s physically incapable of a full-on glare- at her from behind the bar. Shiro will withhold his scowling, and perhaps a few choice words, until after she and her new accessory have left. Someone must be the adult, and the adult will likely never be Curtis. He’s spent the last twenty minutes yammering about ‘Catradora,’ whatever that might to be.

Fortunately, the two don’t stay long enough to be bothersome, only about twenty minutes. They don’t leave a tip. Curtis pouts after them, and so Shiro glares for them both. Some people do not deserve nice things.

“Okay, but I feel like Seahawk is like, the only straight in the entire show and it’s honestly-”

“You know I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about, right?”

“WHAT? How can you not have watched the She-Ra reboot! I’m horrified right now, Shiro. _Horrified._ ” Curtis is so horrified in fact that he trips over himself in his efforts to express himself through body language. Shiro lets him fall. It’s funny.

“We haven’t had Netflix for six months now. Or cable. Just DVDs.” Curtis looks like he’s about to cry. Shiro can’t help but smile, perhaps laugh a little. He’d forgotten just how happy Curtis could make the people around him. He’d forgotten his gift for ensuring that people who enter his bar sad walk out with smiles. There’s something about the man still sitting on the floor that makes him and everyone else around him feel so much better on the inside.

“I’m giving you my login and you’re going to watch that and The Dragon Prince and Carmen Sandiego and Umbrella Academy and the OA and Stranger Things and _all_ the Marvel shows _especially_ Jessica Jones because I love her and I’m giving you my Hulu. HBO Go too because I just _know_ you guys are behind on Game of Thrones and you haven’t seen Mahershala Ali on True Detective which is a _crime_ and you’ll need my Prime and YouTube Premium as well for-”

Shiro leans on the bar, words drifting around him as he observes the man before him, the way he counts off on calloused fingers, the smile on his lips, in his eyes, sparkling with passion and excitement. He enjoys whatever it is he’s talking about. It’s important to him. Shiro finds himself intrigued. What is it that Curtis finds so engaging? What is it that consumes this man’s time, his focus, the spaces of his mind? It’s been years, but Shiro finds himself in the face of a man he wants to get to know, a spirit he wants to learn.

It’s been so long since he’s tried to learn someone. Has it been too long? Has it been long enough? It’s been a long time; it’s been no time at all. It’s complicated. Shiro met Adam years ago, met Adam only yesterday. It’s complicated. He’s known Curtis for ten years now; he doesn’t know the man at all. It’s complicated. Everything is so complicated. Why is everything _so_ complicated?

 

Wednesday

By the time Keith comes stumbling in around midnight, Shiro has yet another collection of napkins covered in an untidy scrawl listing passwords and various shows and movies Shiro and Keith should have seen but haven’t. Why exactly Keith absolutely, positively _must_ see and understand all the myriad ways in which the advertising for Magic Mike was a complete and utter lie is beyond his understanding, but the fondly dazed expression on Shiro’s face tells him he will find out and viewing will not be optional. Channing Tatum notwithstanding, the sight of Shiro and Curtis absolutely not flirting is enough to ease the pain of the two hours he will be losing forever.

The bell rings again in the middle of Curtis’ discussion as to whether or not _Bridget Jones’ Diary_ is just a ripoff of _Pride and Prejudice_ , and everyone turns to stare at a tall, curvaceous young woman with tawny skin not quite the right color, blue eyes not quite the right color, miles of silver hair. “I’m here to see a young waiter named Keith.”

“I’m Keith,” Keith whispers into the ringing silence left behind by a decadent accent. Those not-quite-summer blue eyes fix him with an intense gaze. It feels as if life itself pours from those eyes, filtering into his own soul, coiling deep, tight in his core. There’s _power_ in this woman, in her presence. “You are...?”

“Allura Altea. We really must talk.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” Keith murmurs. The woman gives an approving smile, silver brows lifting along a calculated line. One eyebrow shifts, questioning, at the immovable figures of Shiro and Curtis. “This is my brother, Shiro, and my friend, Curtis.”

“I see. I hope they won’t mind if you and I speak in confidence. Whiskey, please. Neat.” Keith turns to Shiro and Curtis, still standing, only half so statuesque as the woman approaching the bar. He nods to the men and Shiro steps away, Curtis tripping away after preparing the woman’s drink.

“So...why exactly are you here?” Allura gives a soft hum around the rim of her glass, drawing her eyes up and down the man’s frame. He’s pretty enough; he complements Lance well. Lance is a boisterous, golden summer; Keith is still and quiet, with the hard edge of a midwinter night. Those large, dark eyes watch her from around their corners as color shades his pale face.

Allura smiles. “I wish to speak to you about Lance.” Keith shifts on his stool, wrapping his arms around himself, curling inward, making himself small, infinitesimal in the presence of the woman before him. “Please be kind to him.”

Keith finds his gaze stolen again. Allura is made of stars, glittering pale pink on her cheekbones, woven into her hair, burning deep in her eyes, a celestial entity beyond words or comprehension. This woman is Lance’s dearest friend? Keith withers, shrinking in the face of his own inadequacy. “Why wouldn’t I be kind to him?”

“I don’t expect you to mistreat him, understand,” Allura murmurs, voice gentle, kind, a soft edge to it, yet radiating wisdom. Allura Altea has held the entire universe in the palm of her hand, has molded it, guided it, nurtured it into the glittering insignificance it was always meant to be. “But with Nyma, I confess I never met her. I never spoke to her. When I inquired after her, Lance said everything was fine, but she didn’t care to mingle with Lance’s friends or family. I thought it odd, but sadly, made nothing of it.” Allura and all her stars sigh, her entire being shimmering with sadness. “Perhaps if I had…”

Summer is fragile, Keith knows. The weather is unpredictable, the vibrant flowers so easily crushed underfoot. “Just...Promise me you’ll be patient with him.” Allura gazes into what’s left of her drink. “He’ll take good care of you, you know. He’ll pour everything that he has and everything that he is into you and expect nothing in return.”

“I’ll do the same, if I can. As for my patience, it’s not great. But I can see how I might need it. I can work on it.” Keith smiles, and his body seems to unfurl itself. Allura smiles, reassured by his response, endeared by the little quirk of his lips, the little stars glittering in his dark, almond eyes. In layman's terms, Keith is a sweetheart.

“I hope you’re right.” Allura lifts her glass to her lips once more. “At any rate, I have now done my due diligence as resident best friend. I should warn you: before long, you will likely be accosted by a young woman with short blue hair. It’s just Veronica’s fiancee, Acxa. Lance is her favorite future sibling. She means only the best.”

“Looks like I’ll be threatened by many people. Lance has a lot of family.” Keith only smiles. Thank the stars Lance has people who love him. Keith could push on if he were alone. Lance would drift away, lost to the abyss with nothing to tether him.

“Oh, goodness yes. The McClains are very protective of one another, but ever moreso of Lance. If Leo discovers how Nyma has treated his son, he’d sever all ties with Rigel Enterprises, business or otherwise.” Allura purses her lips, something fierce, a distant supernova, flashing deep in her eyes. “I have, just today.”

“Is that wise?”

Allura waves a poised hand. “It hardly matters. My business won’t hurt for it. After what little information Veronica managed to work out of Lance…” Allura frowns. “I do not wish to be associated with someone who abuses those close to them. She’ll be succeeding her father within the year. I won’t work with someone who mistreats other people.

“Furthermore, she’s a fool to risk losing her connections to MCAST and a fool to lose a chance to improve said connections. It very bad for business.”

Keith, despite his knowledge somewhat lacking, his heart more than somewhat biased, recognizes Allura’s wisdom just as he does her increasingly familiar tone. He finds himself sucking on his bottom lip, uncertain, unsure.

“What is it?” Allura whispers, leaning forward on her stool.

“Did…” Keith finds himself drawn back to Allura’s powerful gaze. “Did he tell you the sort of things she would say?” Shiro and Curtis inch along the edge of Keith’s vision, no doubt over their awe of the woman before them, no doubt trying to listen in.

“He did not.” Allura’s gaze narrows, focusing in on Keith. “Will you tell me?” The man blushes under the intensity of her gaze and Allura elects to lean back, letting Keith drift back out of her orbit. Keeping the young man's gaze is akin to holding a ghost by the hand: theoretically possible, logistically daunting.

“I’m not sure I should…” Keith trails off, tearing his gaze away again. Allura wonders how such a shy, quiet man found himself drawn to Lance.

“Please,” she whispers. “He hasn’t been himself of late. He’s been so...subdued. He used to be so high spirited, always talking, always in motion-”

“She wanted him to be still,” Keith blurts. “She wanted him to be quiet. She got so angry when he smiled at me or Romelle.” Keith swallows hard. “I don’t remember why, really, but she would always say things like, ‘why can’t you just,’ and ‘would it kill you to.’”

Allura’s eyes glitter with rage, and Keith averts his gaze further. So far as Keith knows -very far and not far at all-, Lance has some kind of disorder, possibly more than one, and everyone seems content to discuss the matter as if Lance were made of cracked glass, ready to shatter at a feather-light touch. Keith isn’t certain he agrees with their assessment, but understands he has no right to say such things.

He’s not certain Lance requires the level of protection everyone seems to think he does. Lance, Keith suspects, is far more resilient than anyone knows, including himself. He doesn’t speak this thought either. He’s already so far out of line, out of place. He’s a usurper. If Lance were here, he’d feel right at home. It’s complicated.

“I see.” Allura’s voice is cold, filled with all the menace of the void of Space. Keith has no doubt that she would rain fire from the sky if she wanted to. “So that is how it is.”

“Was,” Keith corrects, clinging to the hope that he can fill whatever space Nyma has neglected to notice, to nurture, to grow into.

“Yes…” Allura frowns, swirling eyes gazing thoughtfully into some unknown corner of Space, into some mysterious, foreign sky. “Do you know what the Herbert-Rodriguez clan is known for? What Rigel Enterprises specializes in?”

“No,” Keith whispers.

“Clean energy. Do you know what Altea Technologies specializes in?”

“No.”

“Clean energy. Among other things,” Allura murmurs, toying with her now empty glass. “Up to now, I’ve been content to thrive without competing directly, if mostly for Lance’s sake. Perhaps I ought to send a message.” Keith shivers. This beautiful woman with stars on her cheeks, in her hair, in her eyes will make a formidable opponent. Allura slides off her stool, slides some money across the counter. “Thank you for your time, Keith. You’ve given me much to ponder.”

Just like that, she’s gone, leaving the last gusts of some cosmic storm in her wake. Curtis shudders. “Who was that?” he whispers, voice filled with awe, fear, delight.

“Allura Altea, Lance’s childhood friend.”

“Keith, if you hurt him, you will have to leave the country,” Shiro murmurs. “I love her.”

“I would die for her,” Curtis says with a nod.

“I would live for her,” Shiro counters with a grin.

“I would become a robot clone for her.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

As Shiro and Curtis’ vows of loyalty grow ever more absurd - _”I’d fight an intergalactic space war mech anime style.”_ \- Ryan and Nadia come up, Ryan slinging an arm over his shoulders.

“Long time no see, man.” Keith smiles shyly at his long-time acquaintance.

“Too long,” Nadia agrees. “So, what do we do about Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber over there?” she whispers, large, coffee-colored eyes gleaming in the older mens’ directions. Keith stares, unimpressed.

“Let them struggle. I’m enjoying this.” Nadia giggles in his ear. “Honestly though, could they just fuck already?”

“No offense, buddy, but I really don’t want to think about my boss and your brother doing it.” Ryan sickers. “But yeah, they’re idiots.”

“And we have amazing hearing,” Curtis says suddenly, earning a squeak from his employees. “Get Keith some chicken tenders and get back to work. I don’t pay you to misbehave.”

“You pay Shiro to misbehave,” Nadia grumbles audibly as Ryan sulks off into the kitchen. “You pay yourself to misbehave.”

“Yes. That’s why I hired you. So I can misbehave. Now run along and make the rounds.” Nadia rolls her eyes and stomps off to check her tables. Curtis shakes his head at Keith. “Et tu, Keith?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Keith says, a smug smile crossing his lips, lifted further by Shiro’s deathglare. “I just hang here.” Ryan slides a basket of tenders and fries over. He adds in a side of broccoli, remembering the man's strange fondness for vegetables. “I mean, I’m only in it for the free food, y’know?”

Keith stares down at the food in front of him and sighs. Lasai makes one hell of a good meal, but Keith sometimes wonders if Curtis’ favoritism is only charity in disguise. He hates the idea. He’s not in a position to complain. He might joke about it, but it's hard to accept something he hasn't earned.

“Just eat it, Keith.” Keith’s gaze shoots up, and Curtis smiles. “It’s my pleasure to give it to you. If I didn’t want to, I wouldn’t, okay? So eat.” Keith sighs and begins eating like he hasn’t eaten in a day. He hasn’t. Shiro says he’s been skipping meals. Curtis wonders if he’s trying to save money or if he’s simply too tired and stressed to eat. He’s not sure which is worse.

Watching Keith eat, Curtis wonders at the change in the man. Formerly, Shiro was the mature, responsible, hardworking brother, and Keith, the immature, irresponsible, loose cannon wayward brother. Now, he has a slightly pinched look, as though forced to grow up too fast, the hunched shoulders of a burdensome youth, the dull-eyed gaze of a defeated hero. The man’s trying his best, but the sudden shift in his purpose is beginning to take its toll. Keith has gone from ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ to ‘Let It Be’ in less than eight months. How much longer before he hits ‘Mad World’ or ‘In The Arms Of An Angel?’

“So, Keith,” Shiro says, leaning on the counter. “Are you excited for your date Friday?”

“Saturday. Lance is flying like, all week this week,” Keith says around a mouthful of fries, around the surprise Shiro forgot the conversation. “Said he thinks it’s a test from his dad. He texted me his route, and honestly I can’t think of any other reason for that flight plan other than, ‘I wanna fuck over my son.’” Keith pulls out his phone and shows the itinerary to Shiro and Curtis, who whistle appreciatively. “Right?”

“Well, I’m sure Daddy McClain has his reasons. And Mr. McClain too, of course," Curtis smirks. Keith just gives his friend the middle finger. He misses this sometimes, all the time. He misses spending time with other people, being talked to by other people, not being yelled at by other people. So many of his interactions with others entail being yelled at by people who don’t understand that four-wheel-drive and all-wheel-drive are the same thing; no, he can’t change tires for free; no, the check engine light is not a polite suggestion; no, he was not the one who blew that fuse, it was already blown; no, Garrison’s Italian Restaurant does not serve curry; no, speaking to the manager won’t change that; no, he’s not an idiot; no, he doesn’t know who they are; no, he’s not a lazy, unmotivated vagrant. It’s exhausting; it’s everything. He hates it; he needs it. It’s complicated.

“Daddy? I didn’t think you’d be into that, Kogane,” Ryan says, clapping him on the back as he hands him a beer. Keith doesn’t care to tell his friend that he’s not. It’s not important enough to spend words on. Instead, he offers Ryan a smile and a quiet blush and lets the man steal a few french fries.

Ryan smiles and Nadia comes over and gives him a swift kiss on the lips as she takes empty baskets to the kitchen. The twinge of sadness in chest, the one he always feels when he sees his friends, is tinted with a delicate, fragile shade of hope. He lifts his quiet gaze to his brother and Curtis, who have gone back to teasing each other as they pour drinks. Hope is nice. It’s a nice color.

_Such a lovely shade of blue._

 

Thursday

Lance groans again from his position on the floor. Griffin sighs in mild irritation. “If you’re going to be miserable, could you do it in silence?”

“You have no empathy,” Lance mumbles. He wants to see Keith. He wants to see him blush, smile, shine. He groans again.

“You’ve literally had one one-night-stand, dude. And if your mother finds out about his broke ass, you’re in for it.” Lance glares at his friend. This is the part of Griffin that people don’t care for, the part he appreciates, the part he loathes. It’s complicated.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Lance knows what he means.

“But...She changed her mind about Acxa. If she met him-”

“What’s so damn special about this guy, anyhow? I get it, he’s cute and he let you fuck him so you’d feel better. I don’t see how this equates to the love of your life. I had to listen to the same shit about Nyma and she was a fucking parasite-”

“He’s perfect! He _is_.” Lance can see the skepticism in Griffin’s eyes. “I know he is.”

“How, Lance? How is this different?” Griffin sighs, swiveling in his chair. The view of the water and endless winter sky is boring anyway. It didn’t used to be.

“Because...He…” Why? Keith _is_ special, _is_ perfect. Lance sighs, lacing his fingers behind his head as he lies on the floor in the tiny bit of space just large enough for his long limbs. “I like the way he looks at me. Like I’m enough.”

“Again. One. Night.”

“And he didn’t get angry when I got distracted or had reschedule our date-”

“One night, Lance.”

“And he...he was so _nice_ to me-”

“Because he wanted your dick.”

Lance closes his mouth with a snap. “Was that why? That...That can’t be it. That’s not...Is-is that all it is? Is that really all he wants? But I...I want more than that,” he whispers.

Griffin groans inwardly. He shouldn’t have said that. “I’m sure there’s more to it than that, Lance. If not, there will be. So don’t worry so much, okay? Now, it’s 9 am back home, so why not call him up? If he answers and doesn’t blow you off, he wants more than your dick, alright?”

“But what should I say?” Lance mumbles, rubbing exhaustion from his eyes. They aren’t allowed to sleep while flying. “I don’t want to seem needy…”

“Yeah, fine, but you never shut the hell up and you like to talk constantly. So if he can’t handle it, it’s never going to work out. Better if you figure it out now. So call him up and ask him a Would You Rather question.”

“Isn’t that rather...inappropriate?”

“So is what you did the other night,” Griffin says with a shrug. Lance glares at his friend, then heaves an exaggerated sigh. He might as well. He makes the call.

“Hey, Lance.”

“Hello, Keith. Tell me, would you rather be ten minutes late to everything or ten minutes early?”

“Wh-what?” He sounds confused, baffled, surprised. “What is this about?”

“Griffin said that I should call you and ask Would You Rather questions.” Griffin gives him a thumbs up, then mimes zipping his lips. “So…?”

“I suppose ten minutes early. Don’t wanna lose my job. You?”

“Mnh. I’m ten minutes late to many things as it is, I’m afraid, so it would be nice to arrive on time to something.”

“You’re late to _everything_?”

“I’m afraid so,” Lance says with a sheepish chuckle. “For the most part, yes. I get distracted or I forget all together. Sometimes, my father gives me the wrong time so I won’t be late...Your turn to ask a question.” He doesn’t want to keep talking.

“Okay, um...Would you rather eat a spoonful of wasabi or a spoonful of Tabasco sauce?”

Lance laughs, back arching against the floor with the force of his mirth. “Oh, the wasabi for sure. I never cared for tabasco sauce, I’m afraid. But in general, I love spicy foods. With a Latino family, I’d starve if I didn’t. I’m not sure how my brother Luis survived childhood, honestly. You?”

“Wasabi. I love it. But I like tabasco sauce.” Lance smiles. “Your turn.”

“Would you rather lose all your money and valuables or all the pictures you have ever taken?” Lance winces at the question and Griffin gives him a thumbs down.

“Pictures. I only have a couple and I can take more. You?”

“Money and stuff for sure. Too many important pictures. There’s this one of me and Veronica playing soccer, and one where I’m teaching my mother how to ice-skate, and one of Marco when he won a swim match, and me at Nationals for gymnastics, and Rachel and Luis pranking Griffin with the bucket trick. It was full of glitter and corn syrup.”

“I still haven’t gotten them back for that,” Griffin mutters as Keith laughs in Lance’s ear. Lance grins.

“I’ll be honest, I was expecting you to say pictures too.” Lance ignores the sting.

“Mnh. I can live without wealth. I’ve done it before. But those memories...They’re important to me. I mean, teaching my mother to ice-skate? That was me helping her feel at home here. Helping her learn to love the snow. She hated it for so long when we first came here...Your turn.” Lance reminds himself not to steal the spotlight, not to remind Keith of what he didn’t have, not to run his mouth.

“Would you rather have your boss or the government know your computer history?”

“Oh, my. Well...The government probably already knows, so I’ll go with that. You?”

“If Coran and Iverson knew my search history, they’d just be very sad. It’s all porn and word definitions.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Lance says, giggling. “Mine is very much the same.” They carry on for some time, before Keith, with seeming reluctance says his phone is about to die and he has to get home to shower and change for Garrison's. Lance suddenly registers the tiredness in the man’s voice, knows he put it there.

“One last question?” There’s a moment’s hesitation.

“Sure, Lance. One last question.”

“Let’s see...Would you rather live in an alternate reality where you get everything you want the moment you want it, or here?”

“Y-you first.” The sudden reticence worries Lance.

“Okay...I’d pick here. I already have everything I want, for the most part. And what little I have left to want for, I’d like to work for.” It’s the truth. He has something to work for. Keith is something to work for. He’s never wanted to work so hard. “You?”

There’s a long pause before Keith says, in a small voice, “I...I don’t know. If I were in an alternate reality, I’d have _everything_. But I’m...I’m afraid to know what I want. Shiro lost somebody, and he’s about to move on. I never had parents, and I don’t even know if I’d like to meet them. If I wish I had them. I don’t know what I want. But it would be so much easier than this.”

Lance curls up on his side in the wake of the ensuing silence. _I’d have you. You’d have me. We want that, right? We’d like that, right? Is this too much? Am_ **_I_ ** _too much?_ “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be such a downer.”

“It’s okay. I understand. Well, I can sympathize, if nothing else. I’m happy with my life, but you...You’re not, are you?”

“...Not really I-I was. For a while. But then...it all just fell apart.”

There’s another lone stretch of silence, stretching between them, on and on over miles, miles, miles of open water, churning beneath a darkening sky.

“Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope I can help with that.”

“I don’t want your charity, Lance.” It’s gentle, firm, soft, bristling.

“I know. But I hope, maybe, if ever you want it, you can be happy with me.”

There’s yet more silence, and Lance rises, climbing into his chair, folding his long legs beneath him, waiting, hoping for a response. It comes.

“I hope so too, Lance.”

“I’ll see you soon, Keith.”

There’s no response, only an awkward pause and a click, a text message one minute later.

 **Keith <3:** See you soon, Lance

Lance smiles, gazing out to the stars drifting on the ocean, the moon hovering over them. Lance has really missed that midnight sky. He’s spent months looking up at a pall of clouds, dreaming of the open heavens.

He’d never imagined he’d find them right in front of him like this.

_Such a lovely night._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions, comments, concerns, cries of outrage, threats on my life?
> 
> Leave a comment below!


	4. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If I wait for you, will it be worth it? 
> 
> Are you worth it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is probably going to be longer than I thought.
> 
> Also, just a heads up, It's likely that I won't be able to upload a new chapter for at least 12 weeks. I have a very intense summer job beginning in two weeks and won't be free until the middle of August. I will of course keep writing, but my time will be limited.
> 
> I hope you guys can understand.

Friday

Friday is one of the most difficult days of Keith’s life. No, it isn’t. It’s only as difficult as any other day of his life. It might even be easier, given how Shiro has used his tip money to purchase food for them these past few days. Keith has emergency money in his wallet for the first time in years. So, in this respect, Friday may in fact be the easiest day Keith has had in eight months, in six years, in his life.

And yet, it _is_ hard. It’s hard because Lance is missing. Not missing in the sense that he’s vanished, but rather in the sense that every time Keith walks past that table by the window, there’s a chilly void where there should be warm, golden light. Lance is missing in that Keith is missing him.

He hasn’t heard from Lance since yesterday. He wonders that Lance has kept up with him this long. Despite the MCAST planes being fully automated, he is not permitted to sleep during flight. The few hours between each flight has been filled with nothing but placating various port managers and sporadic sleep. He knows because Lance has babbled on for hours about what may or may not have been company secrets. Keith wonders if his...if Lance might have finally run out of energy to speak. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, if something’s wrong, if he’s wrong.

He’s cleaning off a table, preparing for Romelle to seat a new couple, glancing up at the table now occupied by an elderly man and his wife, dressed in older, well-worn clothes, perhaps exercising the one luxury life affords them, they afford themselves each year. Keith does his utmost not to hate them for it. The tender kiss the woman presses to her husband’s hand, followed by the delivery of a braille menu, tempers the sharp teeth wrapped around his bleeding heart. The withered hands running over the menu, the woman’s fond, time-ravaged smile fills him with warmth, fills him with jealousy. It’s a complicated thing, loneliness.

“You okay, kid?” Keith starts, blushes, returns to his work, edging away from Iverson. He’s worked at this restaurant since before he escaped the system, since he was sixteen. Iverson has never quite taken to him, he knows, but Keith doesn’t take it personally. He never does. “You’re not your usual grumpy self.” Iverson isn’t his usual gruff self, either. The pity is worse.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” He’s still tired, in spite of Shiro’s contributions. It will take time for him to recover any vestiges of life. “Why?”

“Just concerned is all.” Keith sets the bin of dirty tableware back on the table and turns to his boss, meeting his gaze, not challenging, not accusative, merely unimpressed. “No, I am concerned, kid. You’re not my favorite person, sure. But you’re still one of my people.”

“What do you need, sir?” Keith asks quietly, not in the mood for making friends. A pair of fingers from the neighboring table reach over and snap by his ear. He flinches, color rising in his cheeks as he turns toward the sound. “Yes, ma’am? What can I-”

“Ma’am, please don’t treat my waiters like that. They don’t appreciate it and neither do I. It’s not their fault if you didn’t bother to learn their names.” Iverson ignores the resultant blustering, the “Well, I nevers." “Would you be interested in working here full time, kid? I know you went to school for something, but I figured-”

“No, thank you. No offense, sir, but I hate working here.” Keith hasn’t the energy to be anything other than honest. He doesn’t have the tact to be gentle, either. He never has.

Iverson merely sighs. “Yeah, me too, kid. Me too.” He looks around the restaurant. “I used to love it, but these days, just wanna move to Wisconsin with the wife. She used to live there, y’know? Had to leave to find work. Promised her I’d take her home one day.”

“So sell the place and go,” Keith murmurs, lifting the bin to take into the kitchen.

“Gotta find someone to take care of the place, first.” Iverson follows Keith to the kitchen, where he passes the dishes and bin off to Bandor, the dish boy. “Just let me know if you change your mind, alright kid?”

Keith nods to appease his boss, and the man disappears, no doubt to recover his typically gruff demeanour. What an odd exchange. Still, Keith is all but certain he’d rather die than work at Garrison’s full time, whether Iverson has suddenly elected to treat him decently or not. He won’t do it. Not in this lifetime.

“What was that all about?” Hunk asks.

“Wanted me to work full time for him. Said no.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“You don’t deal with the people, Hunk.” Hunk frowns. His friend is even more sad that usual, and he knows why. It happens every now and then on Friday nights. Keith is quiet, doesn’t talk about himself, but he speaks all the same. Most of the time, he says he’s lonely. It lines his monolid eyes, hangs from the corners of his mouth, sits on his shoulders like the weight of the sky.

“I suppose not,” Hunk murmurs, and lets Keith go. The man won’t open, and Hunk won’t break him. He can, he imagines, but he doesn’t have the heart. He’ll just tap on the man’s outer shell and hope that one day he’s invited in.

For now, he’ll watch him go.

Keith sits at the end of the table, watching his peers eat more than joining them. Shay asks him how his puppy is, if his training is going well. Keith tells her that Kosmo is almost full-grown and behaves very well. Romelle asks about Shiro and Keith says he found work close by.

Every answer is followed by a pause, an expectation that Keith can’t meet. They want more, and Keith has nothing to give them. There are two people in the world Keith finds it easy to talk to, and they aren’t here to help him. He’s alone, surrounded by people who want to be his friend, but don’t know how. He doesn’t know how. He just knows an empty space, _the_ empty space.

Walking home alone, walking Kosmo and Red -Red likes to walk too- alone, doing his finances alone, lying in bed alone, Keith feels that empty space where Lance McClain should be more than anything else in the world.

 

“I can’t believe I left my phone in Copenhagen.”

“Honestly? I absolutely can.”

“Thank you, Griffin.”

“Sorry, man. You know I’m right.”

“Yes, I know you’re right.” Lance heaves a sigh from his place on the floor. Heavens, he’s tired. He’s barely slept this trip, between flying and talking to Keith and eating and talking to Griffin about Keith. “Griffin?”

“Yeah, man?”

“Could I ever live on my own? I mean, obviously I live on my own, but do you think I’m capable of living independently?”

“Well,” Griffin says, turning in his chair to stare at his friend doing sit-ups on the floor in his boxer-briefs. Griffin is surprised he’s not wearing panties. His friend finds them more comfortable. They’ve had long discussions over whether or not it should be a deal-breaker for girls. “Do you think you can?”

“ _Griffin!_ " Griffin rolls his eyes at Lance’s whine. “I don’t know.” Lance’s voice is small, fragile, delicate, easily shattered. Griffin might end up shattering it. “How many is this? I haven’t been counting.”

“Me neither. Sorry.” He ignores another scandalized squeal. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“Griffin, I only ask you things if I want you to be honest. I get the truth either way and watching you lie is painful.” It’s a fair assessment. Lying is a skill Griffin never bothered to hone, or even temper.

“I don’t think you can live successfully, one hundred percent on your own. I think you need someone around to help you thrive, at least a little bit.” Lance’s face crumbles. Griffin sighs and sits next to him on the floor. “Dude, you can’t even remember to eat. You set alarms, but still don’t get around to whatever you’re supposed to do, or at least not on time. You have trouble sleeping if you’re on your own. You’re still afraid of the dark-”

“Lots of people are afraid of the dark!”

“-and you can’t stay focused. You’ve tried everything, and nothing works.” Lance pulls himself up one last time, wrapping his arms around his long legs, hands tapping out some unheard beat on his skin. The first time they shared a room overnight, Griffin had been amazed to discover that Lance McClain is not just a scrawny beanpole. He is a beanpole with a great deal of muscle. Right now, the beanpole looks dejected.

“It’s not such a bad thing, buddy.” Griffin taps his friend with his foot. The man doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t meet his gaze, just taps out that song with his fingertips, slow and steady. “Hey, listen to me,” he says, scooting to put himself in Lance’s line of sight.

“It’s not a bad thing, Lance. You’re no less than anyone else, and honestly, I like helping you out when you need it, okay? So does your family. You’re the kind of person who makes other people feel better about themselves just by being around you. So in needing help, you’re doing everyone else a favor.”

“That truly might be the biggest pile of bullshit I’ve ever heard in my entire life. I’m defective, not stupid.”

“Dude, I’m not going to sit here and tell you things you already know. You’re not defective. You’re as smart as they come, smarter than most, and when you’re focused on something, it’s almost impossible to pull you away. You’re just...a little nutty, that’s all.” Lance gives a laugh at that.

“Nutty? Seriously?”

“Nutty like Ina’s fruitcake.” Ina is Griffin’s longtime partner. The two have a bizarre, mutual understanding of each other that Lance finds endearing, terrifying, confusing. As far as he can tell, Ina doesn’t have emotions, which might make it easier or perhaps harder to deal with Griffin’s outspoken, contradictory self. Lance doesn’t really get it, but then, he supposes he doesn’t have to get it to be happy for his friends.

“Oh God, please don’t let them bring that to the Christmas party.”

“No. I don’t let them cook anymore. They’ve finally admitted they’re terrible at it.” Ina _is_ terrible at cooking. They can burn anything, and anything not burned is raw.

“Thank heavenly Jesus. You sure know how to pick ‘em, man.”

“Look who’s talking. God, if that bitch-”

“Hey!” Lance does _not_ like that word. Someone once referred to his mother that way and he had to be restrained by his siblings. His lack of impulse control occasionally causes him to do wild things when it comes to his family and friends.

“Fine, if that loathsome cockroach disguised as a woman-”

“Better.” It isn’t really, but Lance has learned to take what he can get from Griffin.

“-opened her mouth one more goddamn time, I was gonna shover her into a propeller.”

“That seems a little harsh. It’s not as if she was the only one in the wrong. I’m not some innocent victim or anything.”

“But you’re also not petty and selfish. She is.”

“Well maybe if she were with the right person…”

“ _No_ , Lance. She’d still be awful. She’s the kind of woman who gives all other women a bad name.” Lance heaves a sigh. He’s doing his utmost not to speak ill of his ex-girlfriend, but the honesty of his friend -the one he’s been stuck with for the past five days- has not made it easy. “Listen to me, Alejandro.”

“Whatever you say, _James_.”

“Yeah, that was weird. Let’s never again. Anyway, your taste in people is bad and you should feel bad. Also, so you need a little extra help. So what? You’ll get by with a little help from your friends.” There’s a moment’s pause, then, “I get by with a little help from my friends.”

“I get high with a little help from my friends.”

“God, when I get home, I’m gonna get so high.”

“On what? You’re a pilot. Also, we have a drug test next week.”

“Dammit.” A gasp follows. “See? You’re doing great! And guess what?” Lance raises an eyebrow. “It’s officially Friday. You’ve got a hot date tomorrow. Don’t tire your muscles out. It’s shitty to make Keith do all the work.”

Lance groans and rolls his eyes, starting in on some push-ups. Truthfully, he’s not at all surprised by the lack of bitterness he feels at Griffin’s honesty. He’s slightly put out, of course, but in reality he’s always known he’ll need a little bit of help to get by in life. He’s smart -very smart, actually- but he’s easily distracted, forgetful, impulsive. He’ll get lost in his thoughts and try to cross the street on a red light or wander past his destination until he finds himself lost. He’ll take hour-long showers because he loses focus on what he’s doing. No, medication didn’t help; it just killed his appetite and put a thick, heavy blanket over his mind.

It’s the tiny, mundane things, Lance thinks, that people most often take for granted. The ability to do the small things on your own with no struggle or worry is an enviable thing. He’s disappointed in himself. He’s proud of who he is. He hates the man that he was. He’s still that very same person. Lance McClain is a complicated human being. But really, who isn’t?

 

“Do you think Keith is okay?” Shiro asks, pouring a martini for a young woman. He’s already asked three times, but Curtis only smiles.

“He’s probably miserable, but he’ll be fine.” Curtis wipes off his counter again. “He’s quite attached to the man, isn’t he? I wonder why…”

To Curtis’ surprise, Shiro says, “I know why.”

“Feel like sharing?”

Shiro turns to him with a fond smile. “Let’s just say Keith had a very bad day and Lance showed him a bit of kindness.” The sadness in those eyes is boundless, infinite, soul-swallowing. Curtis doesn’t have to guess.

“Oh. Right. He had to work that day, didn’t he?” Shiro just nods. “Jesus. Sometimes I wonder how you two are as functional as you are.”

“I mean, is anyone _really_ functional?” Shiro blinks away his sadness, replacing it with a spark of warm humor.

“Yes. Those of us who aren’t disaster gays,” Nadia says, sliding a tray of glasses onto the bar for Shiro to wash. “We function just fine. Don’t we, Ryan?”

“Oh, yeah. Totally. Sharing an apartment with Griffin and Ina is absolutely indicative of a  functional life.” Ryan rolls his eyes. “They’re super weird. Oh! That reminds me. You guys’ll never guess who Griffin flies with!”

“Who?” Shiro asks, grey eyes large and curious.

“One Lance McClain. We’ve hung out. Gone clubbing. We go see superhero movies together.” Nadia grins like she’s just said the best thing ever. She might have. “We use his niece and nephew so we have an excuse to go see kids movies without looking like total dorks.”

“No. Way.” Curtis’ jaw drops.

“What’s he like? When he’s not flirting with my brother.”

“He’s…Okay, no offense, but like, he’s kinda weird. Like he’s...not really all there sometimes. I don’t think it’s his fault or anything, but sometimes...It’s like he’s in his own little world. Like, he’s there, but his mind is off on some unknown tangent. Either that, or he’s hyper-focused and you have to legit _drag_ him away from whatever it is.”

Ryan cuts in where Nadia pauses. “We took him to Market Square once and Let. Me. Tell. You: that was a _mistake_ , because he was _everywhere._  But it’s cool, because Lance is a ton of fun to hang with. He’s all positive vibes and high energy and it’s kind of contagious.” Shiro nods slowly, understandings coming together.

“He’s our child.”

“We love him.”

“He’s a disaster.”

“He’s _our_ disaster.”

“But he drives us all fucking nuts.”

“We don’t mind.”

Shiro turns to Curtis, who’s sharp eyes are narrowed in thoughtfulness. Lance McClain, Shiro thinks, is an enigma, a question mark, a shadow he just can’t catch, slipping around the corner and vanishing into the sunlight just as he manages a glimpse at its form. He fears that the man will slip through Keith’s fingers like running water.

 

Saturday

By the time Saturday night arrives, Keith is exhausted, though slightly less exhausted than in weeks previous. His hours have been the same, but he’s not stretched so thin. He’s not the only thread holding their lives together. Shiro has picked up a needle.

Shiro is why this week hasn’t been awful. The fact that he stumbles into their apartment smiling just as Keith wakes up for work at Coran’s has been a nice shift in tone. It’s nice to wake up to a smile.

But _stars_ , Keith misses Lance. He hasn’t heard from the Cubano since Thursday night. He worries that he’s done something wrong. Perhaps Lance has lost interest. Perhaps they don’t connect. Perhaps there’s nothing but plastic and wire where Keith thought there could be warmth. In the midst of Lance’s absence, he can’t help but notice the growing void that hovers just outside the line of his vision. There’s a space where that sweet summer should be.

In truth, Keith doesn’t expect Lance McClain to show up. Two days of sudden silent winter suggest that he will end up walking home alone, hunger gone, so when he finally escapes his work and steps out into the snow, he’s surprised -and delighted- to find summer standing right in front of him, wearing his pilot’s uniform and what appears to be a genuine 1940s bomber jacket.

When Lance finally sets his sea-blue eyes on Keith, he breaks into a grin, and Keith sees a brightly colored piece of plastic slip into the jacket’s pocket. Keith only has a second to think about it before long, chilled brown fingers wrap around his wrist, brush against his jaw, soft lips find his cheek. Heat flares up beneath the contact, spreading across both cheeks, a smile spreading across his lips.

“I wasn’t sure you would show,” he murmurs. "I haven't heard from you."

“Ah! I’m so sorry about that! I left my phone in Copenhagen, and, well, what’s forgotten in Denmark stays in Denmark.” Lance stares down at his feet, free hand curling into the edge of his jacket. “It happens with unfortunate regularity, I’m afraid. There’s a reason all of my cars are unlocked via proximity to the key fob. I leave them in my car far too often.”

Keith smiles, and slips his hand into Lance’s jacket, pulling out a fidget cube. He gently presses it into Lance’s free hand. _All of my cars._ “I’ll make sure you don’t leave them anywhere. Don’t worry. Lead the way.”

“It’s a little late, so I’m not certain what’s still open, but I’d like to take you somewhere nice-”

“Nah, screw that. There’s a sketch ramen place on Naxela. It’s delicious and I know the owner.” Lance chuckles, pressing his lips to Keith’s hand, offering him an arm for the short walk to his car, smiling when he accepts. He’s missed the man. He can feel Keith’s heat between them, but he wonders if it’s due only to the disrepair of the other man’s jacket.

“I have a spare coat in the trunk of my car. Your jacket looks a bit...inadequate.” Keith stiffens.

“I’m fine.” His tone is stiff, short, defensive.

“As you like,” Lance murmurs, turning the corner to the rundown parking garage. “But I do have plans for us later -Outside?- so if you change your mind, do let me know, alright?” Keith doesn’t respond, and Lance feels a gaping inch of distance grow in the space Keith has carefully cultivated between them.

“Oh my God,” Keith mutters, an edge of laughter in his voice. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Listen here, sweet Mullet,” Lance laughs. “Do _not_ make fun of my baby.” Keith stares at the white BMW i8 with blue and black trim. “Blue and I are forever. For life.”

“I christen her The Douche-Mobile.”

“Oh, yeah? Know what ‘BMW’ stands for?”

“What?” Keith grins, having some suspicions already.

“‘Banged my Waiter,’” Lance whispers. His lips brush against Keith’s ear and Keith shivers, an electric shock of desire running through him, tingling in his fingers and toes. He chooses not to take offense to Lance’s little joke, chooses to play along.

“I could live for it to happen again,” he murmurs. There’s a nip at his ear, and he tilts his head for further access. Lips travel along the underside of his jaw, fingers over his body, warmth along his skin.

“Extraño tu boca,” Lance mumbles, working his way to Keith’s mouth. “Sabes a la luz de la luna. Sabes a cielo.”

“I don’t-I don’t know what-what that means.” Keith’s mind is melting beneath Lance’s ministrations. For someone so seemingly concerned about his comfort, Lance doesn’t have any problem pinning him against the chilled metal of his ridiculous car.

“‘I missed you mouth,’” Lance murmurs, lips still learning his jawline, the way Keith’s breath freezes in his chest when his teeth pluck at porcelain skin. “‘You taste like moonlight. You taste like heaven.’” A shiver runs through Keith and he melts against the car. Lance works fingers into his thick black hair, pressing his lips against pale pink cherry blossoms. Lance almost purrs with satisfaction as Keith falls apart against him, long, pale fingers in his hair, curling into his jacket, clinging for the support his body has abandoned. He really has missed this.

Lance slides his tongue over Keith’s bottom lip and he opens, letting Lance slip inside. Keith tastes sweet, like cinnamon, like sugar, and his body is hot. He seems less weary tonight and Lance can’t help but smile as he works his arm around the man’s graceful waist.

Keith tries not to outright collapse against the car as he’s all but submerged in warm waters. Lance tastes like the way sunlight feels, feels like how summer feels on his skin, and it reminds Keith that things were good once, that he has good memories.

Keith moans into Lance’s mouth, trembling a bit, and Lance reluctantly pulls away. He’s exhausted after a week of flying and, frankly, yearns for a hot meal. So, he removes his tongue from Keith’s mouth, suckles on his as he retreats, draws back, brushing against the smaller man’s lips one last time. Keith lifts his large, midnight eyes and Lance brushes a few strands of raven hair behind his ear.

“As much as I missed your mouth, I missed your company more-”

“I can see that.”

Lance groans. “See, I’m trying to be romantic here, and you’re ruining it.”

Keith blushes, eyes finding the hole in the toe of his boot. “Sorry,” he whispers.

Lance tucks a forefinger under his chin, gently coaxing his gaze back to him, drawing Keith back into his orbit. “It was only a joke, mi querido.” His smile falls. “Please don’t be anyone but yourself, si? If we do this, I want it to be real.”

Keith tightens his grip in Lance’s jacket. “これを現実のものにしたい。I-I’ve often been told I can’t be anyone else if I try.” His blush deepens as Lance leans down to brush their noses together. The cold eats away at him, penetrating through his old leather jacket, through his clothes, through his skin.

“Hmm...Well you certainly won’t see me complaining. I’ve dealt with so many false people in the last week. Choosing beggars and entitled bosses, nearly all of them.” Lance heaves a sigh, the melodramatic kind that brings a tiny quirk to the corner of Keith’s mouth, brings a spark of light into his shadowed soul. “But nevermind all that. It’s all in the past. Now, I have a beautiful gentleman in my arms and it’s cold as hell outside, so vamonos, mi querido. I’m going to buy you dinner.”

Keith allows Lance to take his hand and guide him around, into the car like he’s a victorian gentlewoman getting into a carriage. He even smiles, blushes when Lance presses a chaste kiss to his cheek before getting in on the other side and letting the doors close. _Automated doors._ This is the sort of thing people at the restaurant typically ridicule him for not having.

“You can push the buttons, if you like.” Lance chuckles, and Keith scowls. “Ay, mi querido. Don’t be angry with me. You’re cute when you’re curious, that’s all.”

Those large, midnight eyes glitter like amethysts when they turn on Lance, sourness discarded in the face of his surprise. “You-You think I’m _cute_?”

“Obviously, I do.” Lance’s brow furrows as Keith pulls out his phone to find the address for where he wants to eat. He watches color spread across delicate features as the man concentrates on the device. “Among other things, of course.”

Keith says nothing, turning to stare out the window. No one has ever given him a complement so freely, least of all something that might insinuate attraction beyond the physical. The only person who’s called him cute, to his memory, is Shiro, and then only sarcastically. _“Where are my socks?”/ “Up your ass and to the left.”/ “Really cute, Keith.”_ He doesn’t know how to take complements. He doesn’t know how to do this.

“Is this the place? Vrepit Sal’s?” Keith nods, folding his hands in his lap. Lance hums, politely curious.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Nope.” Lance gets out and comes around even before Keith gets his seatbelt off, opening the door and offering a hand as though he’s done this a million times before. “Come on, mi querido. You can laugh while I attempt to use chopsticks. I’ve little practice and practically no skill.”

That finally puts Keith a little more at ease, and Lance grins, offering Keith his arm. He’d push for the coat again, but it looks warm in the dingy little restaurant, so he’ll wait until later. With Keith snuggled against his side, Lance guides his date across the street and into the restaurant.

It’s warm, colored in yellows and reds, and there’s an older Japanese man behind that counter. The place is all but empty, with one couple sitting in a corner by the window.

“こんばんは、サル！ 久しぶり！” Lance smiles, listening to the Japanese dance over Keith’s tongue. He wonders if he can keep Keith long enough to learn at least a phrase or two.

“キース！ それは永遠にされています！ お帰りなさい。 そしてあなたは誰と一緒に連れて来ましたか？” _キース！_ Lance believes that to mean kiss -He and Veronica have watched quite a bit of anime- but he doesn’t ask.

“これはランス、私の日付です。 あなたが彼らに与えたのと同じゴミを彼に与えないでください。” The Japanese man laughs, big and loud, and nods, gesturing to the counter. Lance hears the girl complain to her date that they weren’t invited to sit at the counter. Lance ignores it, thinks nothing of it.

Instead, he takes Keith’s hand again, helping him onto the stool. He remembers how delighted Keith always seems when Lance does this for him, holds doors for him, helps him into his jacket. Lack of kindness apparently makes everyday manners seem a novelty. He brushes the anger aside in favor of taking the seat next to Keith, taking his company, whatever the man sees fit to give him.

“Don’t you worry. Kīsu here says you get the good stuff.”

“Kīsu?” Lance asks, unable to swallow the words in time. “Doesn’t that mean kiss?”

“Yes, but your date has an unfortunate name. That is how it is pronounced in Japanese.”

“Sal, I will never eat here again, I swear…Plus, your name translates to monkey.” Lance giggles, pressing another kiss to the corner of his cheekbone.

Keith isn’t sure why Lance keeps doing this. He’d assume the man enjoys it, but he has no idea why- why Lance wants him, likes him, enjoys him. People seldom do, and never like this.

“Now, what do you boys want to eat, hm?”

“Beef. Vegetables. Peppers and cilantro. Sprouts. Egg.” Keith turns to Lance, who simply looks confused. He like beef, Keith knows, and spicy foods. “Same for him. He’ll like it.”

“Um…” Lance turns sheepishly to the chef. “What’s in the noodles? Wheat?”

“No gluten? I have a special noodle for that, don’t you worry. Kept separate from everything else. No contamination.”

“Contamination isn’t a concern,” Lance murmurs, looking uncomfortable. “But wheat will make me sick.”

“I’ll take good care of you, don’t worry. Keith’s orders.” Lance nods, smiling gratefully. So many people assume he’s a pretentious fool who believes gluten is bad for you and refuses to eat it in order to feel special. Gluten is in fact delicious and he wishes he could eat it without spending the next eighteen hours vomiting. That Oreo nine years ago was almost worth it.

“I’m sorry,” Keith whispers. “I didn’t know…”

“No harm done,” Lance says, waving away the problem with a graceful flick of his wrist. “Sal has noodles for me, and if not, a soup without noodles would suit me just fine.” He lays a hand over Keith’s on the counter. “Seriously, Keith. I’m really not that difficult to please. I’m happy just to be here with you.”

The man chuckles, playing with a fidget spinner shaped like Captain America’s shield. Keith wonders if he has one shaped like Batman’s batarang. He’ll have to find out. He wonders if it’s a coping mechanism, collecting novelty fidget toys in an effort to find enjoyment even in disorder.

“You can ask, if you want,” Lance whispers. “I don’t mind.” Keith jumps, realizing he’s been staring. His blush crawls up to the tips of his ears.

“I’m sorry. Really, I’m sorry. I wasn’t-”

“Really, Keith. It’s fine.”  Lance looks down at the toy in his hands. “Mis sobrinos gave me this one. They’ve made it their mission to find me as many novelty fidget spinners as they can...People ridicule the things, but I find that they help. Thank heavens I’m not in high school, though. I’d be torn apart.” Lance offers a chuckle which he probably hadn’t meant to sound so sad, so dark. “Not that they didn’t do their best in the first place.”

“I met Allura,” Keith blurts. “And...Veronica and I talked. They-they don’t seem to-”

“I’m not as fragile as they think. It’s not like I’m unaware of my disorder, or disorders. This isn’t the first time I left my phone in Copenhagen.” Keith grins, laughing softly, like a breeze over dark water. “Ironically, I’m far more willing to talk about it than mi familia. They tiptoe around words like ‘disorder’ as though they’re navigating a hedge maze. They’ve done it for so long now that frankly I’ve forgotten precisely what I was diagnosed with. It hardly matters. What matters is gaining as much independence as I can.”

“You’re not independent?”

“Not fully.” Lance sighs. “I’m trying, and mi familia helps. Especially Veronica. But the fact is that I can’t remember to eat or brush my teeth or turn the stovetop off and I become distracted and unfocused more than is safe. If I wish to work -and I do-, I’ll likely always require some level of assistance to be my best. Which is fine, obviously. But the more independence I can have, the less of a burden I am, the more valuable I can be.”

So that’s how Lance measures his value. Much the way Keith measures his, Lance weighs how much he can achieve on his own against how much others must do for him. He wonders how it must feel to know the scale will never tip quite how he likes. At least Keith’s own scale leans fully to one side, resting heavy on solid ground.

Food is set before them and Lance moans as the sight. This grimy restaurant must be doing something right, because this might be the best-looking meal he’s seen in years, barring of course his mamá’s cooking. His own noodles look slightly different that Keith’s, who inspects them carefully, monolid, starry night eyes narrowed. Then the man nods and begins to eat. “Those are the weird ones. You’re safe. I wanted to make sure our bowls didn’t get mixed up.”

“Oh...Thank you.” Lance’s voice is laced with surprise. He hadn’t expected such consideration, such care. He picks up his chopsticks, blushing into his ramen. He’s weak for a kind gesture and it won’t take his clever date long to figure it out.

“Do you have a spinner shaped like a batarang?” Keith asks around a mouthful of noodles. Lance grins, spooning some broth into his mouth.

“I do not. Not yet anyway. It would definitely be cool, though.” Keith smiles, wondering if he can scrape up the few dollars to buy it before one of Lance’s family members can do it. “Mis sobrinos will find one sooner or later, but I’ll leave it for them to sniff out.”

“What are sobrinos?” Keith asks, curious.

“Oh, children of siblings. Sobrino, sobrina, it’s the same word, but different genders. I have one niece and one nephew.”

“What are their names?”

“Sylvio is ten. Nadia is eight. I can’t believe I haven’t mentioned them yet.” Lance pulls out his backup phone, scanning his thumbprint and pulling up his photo album. Keith registers that his lock screen is Lance and Veronica, his home screen Lance and Allura. “See? This phone is an old one, but it's got tons of pictures on it, and a good camera, so I've kept it around. It's too old to take calls, unfortunately."

It’s a picture of Lance with a brown-skinned boy sitting on his shoulders, and little Latina girl on his hip, flip-flops dangling off her toes. They’re all in bathing suits by a sparkling lake, all smiling. Already familiar with Lance’s lean musculature, Keith finds the many expressions of his face more interesting. The corners of Lance’s eyes crinkle in all the right places and Keith can’t help but imagine just how beautiful Lance will be when they grow in, sunlight caught at the edges of his eyes, taking root in his face.

“They’re my pride and joy,” Lance whispers. “Sylvio is an all-star at soccer and Nadia is a swimmer, like me. In summer, we swim at the lake. Someone comes with us, of course. The water is dark and I’m not exactly a reliable source of supervision.”

“Yes, well, you’re not exactly the most trustworthy, are you?” Keith starts, turning to see the young woman standing behind them, arms folded, head tilted, lips pursed.

Lance tenses, but smiles politely. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You did. Like a year ago. For like, two drinks, and then again for like an hour.” Keith’s heart sinks. He should have figured. “And then you ran off with my friend.”

Lance’s face falls. “I-I’m very sorry. I don’t remember.”

“Of course you don’t. You can’t remember anything. Care to introduce us to your latest model?” The boyfriend -presumably- has come over, gently pulling on her arm, giving deeply apologetic looks.

“I do not.” Keith forces his gaze back to Lance and a familiar shiver runs through him. Lance’s eye have grown dark, not with lust, but with rage. It’s like staring into the ocean abyss, into uncharted territories beyond humanity’s capacity to comprehend or even reach. He ought to be more concerned what the man’s anger does to his body. “What I _do_ care for is that you leave, and do not harass him any further.”

“Oh, going for the gentleman act?” The woman turns to Keith then, and Lance balls his long fingers into fists. “That’ll disappear in a week, tops. Enjoy being knotch five-hundred and thirty-seven.”

“He already has,” Lance blurts, immediately burying his face in his hands. “Goddammit.”

“And get used to weird shit like that. Freak.” Keith’s eyes flicker between the girl standing in front of him decked out in stilettos, a bad attitude and Lance, decked out in shame, embarrassment. _Freak._

It’s an insult that covers many things. It’s an insult Keith himself is familiar with. Being the only homosexual in a foster home accommodating seven other boys will encourage such behavior. In Lance’s case, it encompasses all the things Keith is still struggling to understand. It encompasses fingers tapping out an unheard beat against reddened skin and all the hurt Lance’s own mind has inflicted upon his personage. Keith finds himself angrier with the woman than with his cad of a date.

“Sal!” The man is leaning out the serving window in an instant. “These people need to-no, this woman needs to leave. The guy can stay if he wants.” The boyfriend hasn’t done anything. The boyfriend returns to his table, to his food. It seems he's as impressed as Keith is.

“I’ll get my katana,” the older man growls.

Lance doesn’t hear what happens next. Everything’s tuned out to the point where he can’t hear. The past has a nasty habit of crawling back out of the dark places he’s hidden it just when he wishes most for it to stay away. Of course, this is his fault. He hasn’t always been the gentleman he is now. The ramifications of his past behavior will continue for some time. Not to mention, he really should know how, when not to open his mouth. _Freak._

“Lance... _Lance._ Hey, if you don’t answer, I’m just going to leave.” Long brown fingers wrap around his wrist, pads pressing, searing into Keith’s skin. The other hand drags down his face, pressing color briefly from his skin, freckles flaring to life before sinking back into the golden-red sunset. Those blue eyes are still filled with storms when they finally find Keith’s. The clouds part after a long moment, cerulian taking its place, but the waters are restless, shadowed, sad.

“Sorry. I’m so sorry, Keith.” The voice is quiet, subdued.

“For what, specifically?” The chill in his own voice makes him cringe, the shrinking of Lance’s long, graceful frame makes it worse. Then, to Keith’s utter surprise, Lance McClain takes a deep breath, straightens himself out, and clasps his hands tightly in his lap, fingers twitching as they try to move.

“Firstly, for my inappropriate comment. I didn’t mean to say that. It was lewd and reflected poorly on your judgement, conduct, and character.” Keith frowns at the seemingly frameworked apology. “Secondly...I should have been more forward with you about the kind of person-I-I haven’t always been the person I am now.” Lance sighs. “I have regrets.”

Keith is staring at him, eyes a dark gray-blue, like a winter storm, arms folded. “Like what?”

Lance chews on his lip for a few moments summoning his courage. “I’m aware that I am pleasant to look at. At my best, I’m also pleasant company. I spent much of my life seeking validation that I was still wanted, still valuable. The way I found it was inadvisable, to say the least.

“In my years of secondary and post-secondary education, I developed a reputation for promiscuity. I liked attention. I liked sex. It seemed like a great deal.” Lance falls silent, poking at the still mostly-full bowl of ramen.

“But?” Keith prompts.

“But I lost many things. Was late to many things. I had few real friends. When I tried to clean up my act, I lost all of them. Only Allura, whom I’ve had since the beginning, stuck with me. She’s been with me through every shade of who I am. I’d be lost without her...Nyma was my first actual relationship.” Keith finds pity needling at him with that admission. “That’s why I tried to make it work for so long. To prove that I could.”

Lance stares into his cooling meal, hunger long since gone, his exhaustion from a week of flying taking its place. He wonders if he should simply escort Keith home, but a quick glance sees the man watching him closely. Lance takes it as a sign he might still have a shred of a chance here. He’ll cling to it like it’s his only lifeline.

“I miss my father,” he whispers. It’s something he’s never dared to voice before, not even in his deepest thoughts. He hasn’t even told God, even though He supposedly already knows everything.

Keith doesn’t speak, watches the expressions flicker over Lance’s face. Anger. Bitterness. Regret. Grief. If there’s one thing he can count on from Lance McClain, it’s honesty, even if not freely given. “We used to be so close. But he...He lost respect for me, you know? Like, he worked so _hard_ , especially for me, and that’s what I chose to do with everything he gave me? I likened myself to Tony Stark. Now imagine if Tony Stark wasn’t a genius. I’d compare myself more to Oliver Queen pre-island.

“Wasting money, wasting time. I passed my classes well enough, but other than that...I somehow managed to juggle the party life with academics to my father’s satisfaction that he never stepped in to offer more than a disapproving comment or two.”

“If all of that is true, then what changed? Near-death experience?” If anyone ever asks, Keith will lie, say he wasn’t scathing, petty, bitter when he spoke.

“I almost wish.” Lance tightens his fingers, skin pressing pale to keep them from moving. “It was Christmas, almost a year ago now, and I was sitting alone with my father. And we just...had nothing to say to each other. At all. He’d lost all respect for me. I’d disappointed him so much.”

Keith stares at the sad look on Lance’s face, the light threatening to fall from his eyes, clinging to his lashes, spreading along the edges his eyes like seafoam on the waves. “He...I realized how long it had been since we’d spoken to each other. Like we used to? I didn’t want to lose him. He gave me _everything_. He was there when I was in elementary school and I couldn’t stay in my desk and all of my things were on the floor and I built a crossbow with my pencils, rubberbands, and paper and binder clips that was powerful enough to break a window just because I was bored.

“I remember him screaming at me on the ride home in our car, my mother too busy working, asking why I couldn’t just behave myself, on the verge of tears. I remember later talking to some woman behind a desk, then listening to him sob on the other side of a locked door. He told me years later when I asked that it was guilt. He blamed me for something beyond my control, did and said things he couldn’t take back. He said he should have known I was better than that.

“He spent hours working with me, trying to help me figure out how to do everyday things, guiding me through every single bit of my homework, taking me to therapists, giving me things to do with my hands, anything and everything he possibly could. I don’t think he slept for four years. He trained himself not to, like Batman.

“And I was wasting all of that. It wasn’t something I could live with. So I don’t anymore.” Lance sighed, unfolding his fingers like the petals of a flower, pulling out the fidget spinner again, the little star in the center hidden by his fingertips. Lance’s nails are painted, Keith suddenly notices, the bright blue almost making him smile. “Things are better now, and we talk more often, but there’s still a distance between us. The trust he had in me is gone now. I worry what will happen if he finds out about Nyma. How I handled it in the end…”

Keith wants desperately to believe it. He wants to believe that Lance in sincere, that he genuinely likes Keith, that this isn’t just a fun time for him. The man in front of him simply sits and fiddles with the toy in his hands, and Keith suddenly remembers that first day he met Lance McClain, the way his fingers twirled his wine glass, the way Keith found it obnoxious. He can still see the the kind concern as a summer gaze traced the blurring edges of his vision, see comforting words left for him to find, see those blurred edges of his sight fall from the trembling tips of his fingers, slide down his wrists, drip glittering like stars to the table below.

“Keith?” Keith starts. He finds Lance’s tired gaze. “Listen, if you want, I can take you home right now, no questions asked. But...If you can, please give me a chance. I’d really like it if we could have something more than a one night stand.”

Keith can feel Sal hovering, probably unsheathing his katana again under the counter, ready to kick the man out of his restaurant. He can also feel Lance tugging on his heart. It’s odd, but it isn’t difficult for Keith to come to a decision. After twenty-four years of people lying to his face and putting him down for one reason or another, facing a man who’s shown him nothing but honesty and kindness is the easiest thing he’s ever done. It’s the hardest. It’s complicated.

He nods, murmuring assent and Lance’s face is awash with relief. The Cubano grins. Sal snatches their cold food before Keith can return to it, earning cries of protest.

“I’ll make more,” Sal grumbles. “それは外で凍りついていて、あなたはこの愚かな金持ちの少年が冷たいラーメンを食べるのを許すつもりです。”

“私は彼がばかかどうかを決めていない,” Keith replies. Sal offers nothing more than a hmph.

Lance giggles. “I know you’re talking about me.” He sounds more amused that anything else.

“Guilty,” Keith confesses. “He said I was mean for letting a stupid rich boy eat cold ramen when it’s freezing outside. I said I wasn’t sure if you’re stupid or not.” Lance giggles again. “Jury should be back soon.”

“I’m book smart, if nothing else.” Lance takes a cup of hot tea from Sal with a quiet thanks. “Common sense often abandons me, however.” Keith smiles. “I took a test to learn my D&D stats and I’m a ranger with ten in wisdom but sixteen in intelligence. Veronica says it means I’d be very good at detecting traps, but I’d trigger them by putting my hand on them.”

Keith laughs, soft and quiet, like an owl’s wings. His smile is full of wolfish teeth and his eyes flash with an almost predatory insight. Lance isn’t sure how to get something so wild, restless to stay. He desperately wants it to. A feather brushes against his wrist.

“Are you alright? You went quiet for a moment.” Fresh food is laid in front of them and Lance wrangles his chopsticks into something marginally effective.

“I’m fine. I just like your laugh, that’s all.” Lance watches in delight as color dances across Keith’s avian cheekbones, an unspoken something works its way into the corners of his eyes, his lips. The man bows his head, hiding as best he can behind his dark hair. Lance reaches over and tucks a thick lock of it behind an elfin ear. “Eres hermoso, mi querido. Me haces sonreir.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Keith mumbles. The hair on his arms, the back of his neck, lifts nonetheless at his tone. Lance’s Spanish drips with desires, or so it seems to Keith. Perhaps he just likes the way a foreign tongue slips so playfully, so easily from that sweet-tasting mouth.

“‘You’re beautiful, my darling. You make me smile.’ You are. And you do.” Before Keith can react, Lance returns to his food. Sal pushes his own bowl, sits on his stool on the other side of the counter. Lance grins behind a mouthful of noodles, offers his chopsticks for cheers, which the Japanese man returns with a crooked smirk.

Keith stares down at his food. He doesn’t speak a word of Spanish except to say, “No hablo Español,” but he is intelligent. _My darling. Mi querido. My darling._ He can feel his blush rising up to the tips of his ears as Lance leaves him speechless yet again. Is he really so easily bought by compliments? This man will make him vain. He’s never thought of himself as beautiful. He’s a fast learner.

“Finish your food, mi querido. There’s somewhere I want to take you.”

The promise in Lance’s voice shatters his thoughts like a heavy stone dropped on thin ice, collapsing outward, making the shards drift haphazardly on the surface. He obediently begins to eat, and Lance matches him bite for bite, pausing when he can to engage in conversation. It’s a very different eating habit than their first meal together, but Keith doesn’t care to comment on it. If it’s important, Lance will tell him. That, and he has a far more pressing question.

“Where will we go?” he whispers. Lance hand pauses on the way to his mouth and he sets the Chinese spoon back in his bowl.

“I want to take you to my place. I don’t presume for you to stay the night, of course, or even to enter my home, but I have something planned that I think you might like.”

Keith considers this. “So if I decide I want to go home after?”

“I’ll take you.” Lance doesn’t hesitate. He’s made more than one mistake with Keith; he doesn’t want to make another.

The sight of the quiet man mulling over his thoughts brings a smile to Lance’s lips. The man is soft. Strong, unyielding, but soft. The lines of his eyes, the curve of his brows, the light casting his face are soft. Soft. Warm. Distant. He’s distant. Keith is just barely out of reach, like a half-wild animal. Lance can coax, charm, bribe, beg all he wants, but ultimately, it is the other party who must come to him. A previous incarnation of Lance McClain would have given up already, gone off in search of easier prey.

Keith nods, large amethyst eyes studying him with curiosity, head cocked to the side. “Alright. I’ll come.”

Lance breaks into a grin, eyes lighting up like the sun, and warmth spreads through to Keith’s fingers and toes. He wonders how he ended up here, forgiving things he never thought he could forgive, doling out chances like he has love to spare. He doesn’t. Life has spared him too little. What does he have to give? What does he have to offer? The warmth fades with his smile, and cold settles in bones once more.

“Hey. Are you alright?” Lance murmurs. The sunlight fades, concern swirling in boundless oceans. “I can leave, if you like. I can-I can still take you home, if you've changed your mind.”

“No...but…” Keith stares at the remains of his meal. “Why are you here?”

“Isn’t that obvious by now?” Lance’s voice is soft, like a summer breeze through the trees. Keith’s brows furrow and Lance sighs. “Because I like you, silly. I like your smile and your warmth. I like how real you are.” Lance tucks a lock of hair behind Keith's ear and Keith finds gravity too hard to resist, turning to look deep into the sun, letting the heat flood into his cheeks. “I like that you don’t treat me like I’m made of glass. Like I’m a fragile or like I’m an imbecile.”

“You have a degree in aerospace engineering. I think it’s safe to say that you’re not an imbecile. As for being fragile, you just never struck me as the type.” Keith smiles in satisfaction as he brings some color to Lance’s cheekbones. “You’re definitely my type, though.”

“Finish your dinner, mi querido. Then we’ll go.”

 

“But what if it’s not going well?”

“By all of my many gods, Shiro!” Curtis throws his hands up, overbalancing back into the counter. Shiro automatically puts a hand on the small of Curtis’ back to steady him. It’s become second nature to protect the man from his own lack of coordination. “Thanks. I’m sure everything is going great.”

“But-”

“How about this?” Those icy blues glitter with humor, but Shiro still expects a logical, mature solution to his foolish fretting. “Let’s go spy on them!”

“What?” Shiro deadpans, suddenly realizing just how much of a child the man in front of him is.

“Keith totally went to Vrepit Sal’s, right? I bet they’re still there! We can run out, spy on them real quick, and come back! Ryan!” Ryan turns, awaiting his boss’ orders. “Hold down the fort! We’ll be back in a bit!”

“Seriously?! Why can’t you two flirt in a normal way?!” The regulars begin snickering into their drinks.

“Because we’re idiots,” Curtis says, not missing a beat. “Now don’t make a mess and don’t burn down my bar.” Curtis throws Shiro’s old coat over the man's shoulders, pulls on his leather jacket, and drags him out into the night.

“Ah…It’s lovely out tonight, isn’t it?” The air is clear and crisp and the stars that manage to break through the yellow city air twinkle dimly far above. They reflect in Shiro’s gray eyes and Curtis find the night all the better for it. He tugs Shiro after him. “Come on! Let’s go spy on your brother!”

Shiro can’t help but laugh a little as Curtis drags him through the grimy streets toward the sketchy restaurant. The tips of his dark brown fingers brush against his wrist, heat of his palms sinking beneath his world-weary coat.

“Whoa!” Curtis pulls Shiro back just before he breaks into the light of a streetlamp. He slips on some ice, falling onto his hands and knees before Shiro can catch him.

“Are you alright?” Shiro asks, taking a careful knee next to his increasingly dear friend. Curtis just taps him on the arm, pointing. Shiro follows his eyes.

Lance is standing there, dressed in his pilot’s uniform, a bomber jacket on one arm. He's holding Keith’s hand sweetly, smiling softly. Lance whispers something to Keith and Shiro can see his brother’s blush from here. It mixes well with his uncharacteristically bright smile.

“Look at how happy he is,” Curtis breaths, mist rising from his mouth, sending his best wishes, his elation with it. Shiro smiles, a subconscious arm around Curtis’ waist.

Lance pulls Keith to the side of the lit restaurant windows and murmurs something softly in his ear. Curtis leans up and whispers in Shiro’s ears, “Tus ojos están llenos de estrellas. ‘Your eyes are full of stars.’”

“It’s totally not creepy how you do that, y’know.”

“Shh!” Curtis gently pushes Shiro’s face back to look at his brother, whose cheeks are now ablaze even as he pulls the taller Cuban man down, locking their lips together. Pale fingers weave their way into soft brown strands, long brown digits into dark locks, slipping through the tresses to cradle Keith’s face like he’s a treasure that cannot be possessed. “Aww.” Curtis slips on the ice again, ending up sitting angel-style on the ground, leaning, resting his head on Shiro’s shoulder.

Shiro smiles, watching as Lance pulls away, brushing knuckles along the crimson in Keith’s cheeks, blue eyes warm and tender. Keith whispers something back, and Curtis murmurs back, “私はあなたと一緒にいるとき私は暖かく感じます。”

“‘I feel warm when I’m with you.’” Curtis pulls away, questioning gaze tugging at Shiro’s body, his mind, his eyes. “Keith’s life often seems very bleak, I imagine.”

Curtis presses against Shiro, needing the man’s warmth, needing the man’s proximity. He watches as Lance grins, as everything goes soft, as the Latino presses his lips tenderly against Keith’s. “It doesn’t seem so bleak right now.”

Shiro feels Curtis’s weight more acutely as the world grows soft, warm, even as the cold needles at their skin. His arm tightens around the man as they watch Lance pull away, lead Keith toward an expensive-looking car, help him in, drive away. His arm remains for some minutes, leaving Shiro to wonder what keeps him there, whether it’s the cold or the weight of warmth settling between them, around them, in them.

“We should get back,” Curtis murmurs, not moving.

“Yeah. Before we freeze,” Shiro replies, not moving.

“Which means we have to get up,” Curtis whispers. Shiro sighs, standing, helping his friend to his feet. His arm hasn’t moved from the other man’s waist. “Ryan isn’t experienced enough to run the bar for long.”

The short walk back the Curtis’ bar is lengthened by slow-moving feet, one pair steady, uncertain, the other slipping, sure of purpose. Shiro doesn’t remember how to proceed, how to voice the feelings trying to find their way into his mouth, how to start anew, afresh, alive.

Shiro slows their pace a little more, wondering if the warmth at his side might help him remember.

 

Keith watches the wall approach, all cobbled stone, easily three meters high, disappearing into the night in either direction. The entrance to the McClain estate is equally daunting, a tall metal gate decorated in vines, the carbon steel a close imitation of carbon life.

“Oh-seven-two-eight,” Lance murmured. “My birthday, because I can never remember random combinations.”

The gates open silently to usher them through, the shadows serving as otherworldly sentinels, honoring their passage, gatekeepers of the night.

“Wow,” Keith whispers. Perhaps a hundred meters from the gate, there’s a lake, settled like a mirror in the snow, a boathouse and dock frozen into the water. Across the lake, there are five houses of relatively normal size and one enormous mansion, all of cobbled stone and wood. Great oaks dot the landscape, adorned with tire swings and tree houses. “I like your aesthetic.”

Lance gives a golden chuckle. “Thank you. I’ve always had a bit of a creative edge, so when my father met with an architect, he invited me to offer input in the designs. I wanted something rustic. I found it created a comforting environment. It makes me feel calm and at ease. Modern design puts me somewhat on edge, I’m afraid. My favorite part of my home is my fireplace. I love living in a region where I can use it often. Granted my place also has a sound system in every room and a large television, but in general...not what you were expecting?”

Keith follows Lance’s disjointed thoughts as best he can, his struggles tempered by the edge of excitement in Lance’s tone.

“No. Well, it’s large, like I figured, but I expected lots of...I don’t know, ridiculous stuff?” Keith noticed a strange, long building in the distance, surrounded by a wooden fence. “What is that?”

“That’s the stable. We have a few horses. I’ve spoken to my father about getting a few more, but I’ve had no luck thus far. My own horse, Blueberry, passed about a year ago now.” Keith registered a deep sadness. “I learned to ride on Blueberry. He was only ten when I got him as a kid, so he still had enough spirit in him to be a challenge. I learned how to ride quite quickly.”

“What happened to him?” Keith asks.

“He died of old age -they only live about thirty years, but he was about my age. Wasn’t as sound as he could have been. Asthma, a swayed back. I think it was a heart attack in the end. I confess I cried for days. I really, really loved that horse. It was a hard day when I realized he was too old for me to ride anymore. I rode my father’s horse, Chico, after that. And now. I couldn’t bring myself to buy a new horse when I still had Blueberry. Then...I spent a while grieving, to be honest.”

It hadn’t yet occurred to Keith that Lance’s many possessions would matter to him. His car is clean inside and out, windshield wipers new, leather freshly cleaned, cupholders spotless. He speaks of his horse like an old friend he misses dearly, and Keith has no doubt in his mind that Blueberry had been doted on every day of his life. “I’m sorry you lost him,” he murmurs.

“I tearfully informed my father that I only ever wanted large parrots or tortoises from then on, so I wouldn’t have to miss them,” Lance says with an embarrassed laugh. “Then Allura and Vero made me get a cat. I spend a lot of time on my own here, just me and the help, so they thought I needed a new friend to keep me company. Blue’s a sweet girl. And spoiled, of course.”

“Is there any animal or human you haven’t spoiled?” Keith asks as Lance parks his car next to another blue Jeep Wrangler and a blue Tesla.

“Just you, but that will change if you give me half a chance,” Lance says. “Out, mi querido. And do grab that coat from the back. You’ll freeze.”

“Are we doing something outside?” Keith asks.

“We are indeed. But no horses today. That’s for a day when we aren’t both quite so tired.”

Keith trades his jacket for the heavy black wool coat, acquiescing to Lance's seeming need to fuss over him. It fits perfectly. It’s warm; it smells like Lance, like summer, like sunshine. Keith won’t admit it, but he’s grateful. Lance looks him up and down and nods in approval. “You’re keeping that. And before you protest, it doesn’t fit anyone else properly and mis sobrinos won’t grow into it for years.” Keith hesitates even as he snuggles into the thick layer of Lance’s warmth. “Take good care of it for me, alright? And do follow the instructions on the tag if it needs to be cleaned.”

Keith nods as Lance further inspects the fit in the sleeves and shoulders. _Take good care of it._ Things aren’t things to Lance. He’s not a thing to Lance. It’s meaningful, somehow. The man who could have anything, everything, takes less than he could and treats it with care, treats Keith with care. “Are you warm enough?” Keith nods, though he wishes he had a hat, a scarf, gloves that covered his fingers. The fingerless pair he bought at Hot Topic when he was sixteen, bitter, angry, lost are far from adequate.

Lance notices the bare fingers slipping into pockets, but he swallows his words. Keith won’t appreciate his comments and he’s said things he shouldn’t have already. Instead, he takes one and puts it in his own pocket, slips his arm around the man’s slender waist. “Come on. You’ll like this.”

The lake glitters by the light of the moon, and Keith can see tracks from ice skates, swirls of shaved ice where people have fallen. He can see footprints in the snow, some large, a pair of pairs small and fast, running through the snow. There’s a quartet of snow angels, a quartet of snowmen. Lance’s sobrinos and their parents. It’s an odd, almost intrusive thing, like he’s skirting the fringes of some other life that he can’t possibly understand, can’t possibly belong to. All he sees is the evidence that family exists. He’s never known it; he has one. It’s complicated.

There’s a depression in the snow, where the lawn is interrupted by cobblestone, exposed by blue salt. It’s firm, solid beneath his feet; Lance is firm, solid at his side, the arm around his waist keeping him anchored to the ground as his surroundings threaten to pull him out of his body. “What do you keep in the boathouse?”

“Life jackets, canoes, kayaks, a pair of jet skis, fishing poles. The beach house has more of the same, but my father wanted us to be able to learn and practice on the lake before he put us out on the ocean. The beach house has sailboats and paddle boards and surfboards and whatnot as well. And a yacht, of course.” _Beach house._ “My father bought the beach house for my mother. She doesn’t enjoy the cold up here, so he bought a place in the Keys so she could escape. She’s there now, with Marco and Rachel. They’ll be back for Christmas. Papi is looking into a place in Cuba so he can take us home.”

Keith can hear an ache in those words, in the word ‘home.’ Home is an abstract concept, an unattainable something Keith has never quite gotten a handle on. It’s a concept held just out of his reach, knowledge life has chosen to deny him.

“See that wall over there?” Lance murmurs, pointing. Keith nods. “That’s the garden. In Spring, there are cherry blossoms. And before they passed, mis abuelos managed to establish some roses. We all pitch in to tend them now. You’ll have to come back when they start blooming to see. Iain, the head gardener, and his crew do such a wonderful job with all of the landscaping. They let me help, too, which is nice. We’re almost there.”

Keith turns to look before them and finds himself staring at a forest of immense trees stretching their arms up to the sky. Keith takes a tiny step away from Lance, leaning so far back that he stumbles as he tries to see the tops of the snow-covered branches. Lance’s hand slips from his waist to the small of his back, catching him before he falls. Keith wants to kiss him, hold him, touch him, _feel_ him, but he’s too busy trying to comprehend that Lance remembers when he talked about the forest a week ago, yesterday.

“I know it’s not green right now, but I thought you might like it.” Lance takes his hand, walking backwards as he leads him into the tall trees. “These trees are part of the reason Papi ultimately chose to move here. My mother fell in love with them. Said it made living here more bearable.”

“Is your mother at all happy here? It sounds like she’s miserable.”

“She’s grown to love it,” Lance says, falling into place beside Keith. He watches the moon cast shadows, cast light on the fallen snow. He guides Keith over a frozen creek where he and his siblings spent the warmer months hunting for salamanders and tadpoles. Sometimes, he takes his sobrinos to do the same. “Watch your step, the bridge is slippery. It needs to be salted again.”

“It’s beautiful. All of this is yours?” Keith has trouble comprehending this level of wealth, this level of pleasure, of comfort.

“Yes. Allura’s property is adjacent to ours, and we’ve shared the forest as long as we’ve been neighbors. It was her father, Alfor, who turned my papi onto this land.”

“Allura is terrifying,” Keith murmurs.

“She is when she wants to be. I certainly wouldn’t want to make enemies with her.” Keith doesn’t speak to that. “Why do you say so?”

“She...I didn’t give her any details, but she asked about Nyma and I didn’t know how to say ‘no.’ She got all quiet and still.”

Lance sighs, troubles rising from his mouth in a cloud of mist. “She would have worked it out of me if she hadn’t worked it out of you. We’re here.” Lance stops and Keith looks around, confused. “Look up.”

Above their head is a collection of tree houses connected by wooden rope bridges. Keith can see a zipline, a pond, a pulley system, obstacles at different heights, a small, one-meter-high stone wall that likely serves as a little garden. A few meters beyond, there's a breach in the stone wall that closes Lance off from the outside world. “What is this place?”

“In a word? Summer. Sixteen, to be exact. And all the time in between. This is where our property converges with Allura’s, and Alfor decided to have this built. A treehouse just showed up one day, and the rest just kind of followed. This tree is the largest around.” Lance steps forward, testing a rope ladder. “It’s sturdy enough. Follow me up, okay?”

A series of ladders, stairs, and pulleys later, Keith is sitting next to Lance on a snowy platform, looking up at the stars and the moon over the tops of the trees. He’s never seen so many stars, all twinkling pale shades of blue and red, dancing in a purple sky. The moon is bigger and whiter from up here, where he and Lance are the only people on Earth and eternity is the night laid out before them, for them.

“Do you like it?” Lance whispers, arm around his waist to hold him close. Lance wants him close.

“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” It’s the second most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. The man sitting next him, offering him a grin made of freckles and sunlight, the beach wind permanently in his soft brown hair, is the first by miles and miles of snow-covered treetops.

Keith is the one who leans in first, hoping his gratitude, his feelings transfer because the two languages he speaks don’t have the words he needs.

He’s never felt so warm.

 

“So…” Curtis cleans another glass. They’re alone in the bar. “Are you still fretting?”

“Oh, yeah. I’m a nervous wreck and I will be until Keith tells me everything is fine.” Shiro dries the glass and puts it beneath the bar.

“We’re heading out gays-I mean guys.” Ryan gives a casual salute, taking Nadia’s arm. “Griffin’s probably asleep on our couch, so we need to put him to bed.”

“Goodnight, kids,” Curtis teases, returning the salute.

Shiro turns to lean back against the bar. He pulls the wad of cash out of his pocket and begins counting. It’s not quite as much as the night before, but it’ll buy food for tomorrow and maybe a toy from Kosmo. “Do you need more?”

Shiro turns his gaze to Curtis and smiles. “No, it’s enough. Thanks, though.”

“You wouldn’t tell me if it wasn’t. You’re welcome.”

“Force of habit. Keith only knows to rely on me, and I only know how to rely on him.” There was someone else once, too, but neither of them mentions it. They don’t have to; it’s a name that hovers in the air and no amount of winter winds will blow it away. “But this is plenty. More than plenty, after the paycheck.” There’s a stretch of silence then, “I forgot his birthday.”

“What?” Curtis trips on the mat behind the bar and Shiro catches him without hesitation.

“His birthday. October twenty-third. I forgot. I didn’t get him anything. I didn’t even mention it...”

“Wanna make him a cake?”

“What?” Curtis’ pale blues gaze at him from the depths, head tilted to the side just so. The small smile on his face stirs in Shiro’s blood.

“We can go upstairs to my place. I have a cake mix and frosting that we can use. I wanted carbs the other day, but then I changed my mind.”

“Do i need to help you up the stairs?”

“Pfft, no.” Curtis trips on the first stair, skittering up to the sixth stair as he tries to find a purchase. Shiro laughs the entire way up the spiral staircase, though he puts a steadying hand on the man’s back as they reach the small landing. “I really shouldn’t be legal,” the man mumbles.

He’s blushing, Shiro realizes, color visible despite the dimly lit bar, despite chocolate skin. It’s an intimate thing, being in someone else’s home. It’s even more intimate at three in the morning. It’s the space of someone who lives alone, spartan, not impersonal. There are anime and comic book posters on the wall and a mess of Monsters and Mana paraphernalia on the coffee table. Beneath the television are a few gaming systems and a haphazard mix of games and DVDs. It smells of spices Shiro is unfamiliar with. It smells like Curtis.

“Okay, so I have all the stuff for it. You should probably do...All of it? I guess?” Shiro chuckles, taking the eggs before his companion can drop them.

“You do the vegetable oil and water. I’ll do the eggs and stir it.” Curtis nods, preheating the oven. Shiro cracks the eggs as the silence grows uncomfortable. “Curtis?”

“Hmm?” The man fills a measuring cup with water at the sink.

“Do you have family?”

“Ah...no. I don’t.” Curtis pours some vegetable oil and adds the liquids to the chocolate cake mix. “You and Keith, I suppose. Nadia and Ryan. My mother died in childbirth and my father died of prostate cancer when I was twenty-two. He left this place to me. No siblings, no other relatives that I know of. Just me, as far as blood is concerned. Why?”

“I just wondered why you care so much-”

“You know why. Whatever you do, please don’t insult my intelligence. Or your own.” Shiro grimaces at the edge, razor sharp, threatening but never harmful. It’s the closest Curtis has ever come to anger, at least in Shiro’s presence. For the first time, Shiro wonders if perhaps Curtis isn’t quite as happy with their friendship as he seems. He wonders if the man might in fact actively want more. Then Curtis sighs. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you just now. Please, let’s forget it, alright? You and Keith are the people I consider my family now.”

“But why?” Why him? Why any of this?

“Did you ever have an answer for that?” Curtis asks, pouring cake batter into two pans and sliding them into the oven.

Shiro blows air through his cheeks. “No.”

He’d never had an answer. People have asked plenty of times, questioned his sexuality, his love, his strength of character, anything they could, can think to question. It isn’t a question he knows how to answer. He simply knows that there is one and that it’s led him here. _Here._

It’s a quest, an answer, a destination, a continuous trajectory heading toward some known unknown something far in the distance, standing right in front of him. How long did it take? Years? Months? Weeks? Days, hours, minutes? Did it take all of these lengths at once or none of them at all? It’s in this moment when Shiro wonders if there’s any truth to the theory that time does not exist, is an illusion made up by fools afraid of the immediate, of the future.

“Some things are better without answers, don’t you think?” Curtis smiles at him, setting to cleaning off the counter. Shiro sets to washing the mixing bowl. He’s not sure he thinks that at all, because there’s an answer staring him in the face, wrapping around his mind, twisting in his gut, and in spite of everything, he’s dismayed, glad to have it.

Guilt tangles with something like joy, something like relief, and his mind is clear enough to see the fog clouding his deepest thoughts, even if he can’t yet penetrate it. Hot water pools in his fingers and toes as ice crowds out his heart. Blue ice reflects the yellow light of the kitchen, contradictory in idea, perfect in execution, a hard edge softened by warmth.

“I think I’d rather know what I’ve got than spend my life wondering,” Shiro murmurs, drying the bowl and putting it away. Curtis gives Shiro a searching look, watching ghosts run circles around his grey, misted eyes. Once, they were like clouds heavy with snow, looming close but just out of reach on the horizon. Now, in the immediate, Curtis sees only an impenetrable mist, everything right in front of him, unseeable, untouchable, unknowable, shadows and shapes obscured by mist.

“Shiro?” Shiro looks up from the empty sink, turning to the man beside him. “If you could go back, would you do anything differently? Knowing how it ends?”

I hasn’t ended, not by inches, miles, leagues. He’s still tiptoeing, crawling, sprinting blind, drawn on and on toward some inevitable conclusion. The end of Adam wasn’t the end of everything and everything is right in front of him. Shiro is hurtling toward it at the speed of light, at a snail’s pace.

“No. I wouldn’t.”  Shiro dries his hands on the kitchen towel. “Sometimes, things don’t work out how we planned. That’s just life. But I’m still grateful for what I -we- had, and everything I have in front if me. I’ve got an entire life ahead of me, and it’s beautiful.”

“How do you know if it’s beautiful? Like, how do you know it’s not going to be an utter disaster?” It’s times like these that Shiro remembers that Curtis is several insignificant, life-altering years younger than him. The man’s barely twenty-three, five years Shiro’s junior.

Shiro sighs, rehanging the kitchen towel. He turns to the man with a smile, those bright eyes a bizarre mix of ice and sunshine. “You just have to know when you’re looking at it.”

Curtis peers into Shiro’s eyes, into the ever-so-faint lines of his face, the corners of his mouth, the graceful curve of his brows, the line of his jaw, the bulk of his shoulders, less now than it once was. He finds an answer tugging at the corner of his mind, but he can’t quite coax it out of the shadows.

The oven dings and they both jump, Curtis knocking a plastic cup off the counter in the process. He sigh, shaking his head. “At least it was empty.”

“At least it was plastic,” Shiro chuckles.

“Mm. I don’t use glass or ceramic. I have a set of ten places and have not used them once.” Curtis wordlessly hands a pair of pot holders to Shiro and Shiro pulls the cake pans out of the oven, poking the pastry with a knife to make sure it’s cooked all the way through. “We’ll have to wait awhile for it to cool. I don’t know if you’re-You can-You can sit on the couch of you want. And take your shoes off, stranger.”

Shiro does as he's told, removing his worn shoes by the door, placing them carefully next to Curtis’. It means nothing, the symbolism staring him in the face. It means everything. Things are still complicated. They’ll always be complicated.

Curtis decides to go and sit next to Shiro on the couch, and trips on the leg of the coffee table. Shiro catches him by the collar of his shirt like he was expecting it, managing to save him from a bloody nose or worse. “Thanks. I’m an embarrassment.”

“Oh come on. To whom?”

Curtis clambers onto the couch, hiding his face in his hands. “Myself? The people around me? The human race? The entire Hindu pantheon?”

“I don’t find you an embarrassment. I think it’s kind of endearing.”

The dark-skinned man just sighs, sitting sideways so as to face his friend. “Well, that’s something at least...You know, I really do love this place. I’m grateful to my parents for leaving it to me. I honestly never thought about doing anything else.”

“Do you think about it now?” Shiro wonders what the man in front of him sees on his horizon. His own horizon is so steeped in gray fog, hiding even the waves that make up his shoreline, preventing him from setting sail. He’s stranded alone, not alone.

“Not exactly. When I think to the future, I always see myself here. What I have is important. I like making people happy, making people smile. I consider my work important and find it fulfilling. I just-” Curtis breaks off with a sigh.

“You’re on your own. You want to share it with someone who appreciates it.” Shiro leans back. “I never had that. I...Well, I met Adam when I was sixteen, moved in with him at eighteen, asked him to marry me at twenty, and then...we spent years growing up and, in a way, growing apart. We grew into different people and spent years trying to connect to the person the other had grown into.

“We weren’t bad people, ever. Not even close. I’m still a decent person, I think. Adam was still wonderful: generous, compassionate, volunteered on weekends. We were just different people. And we just didn’t have enough time to find that connection again.”

“Do you think you could have?” Curtis studies the layers of sadness wrapped around Shiro like a shroud: sadness at life, at death, at things left behind, at things left unfinished. Nothing is ever truly finished. There is no true closure, no true resolution. No matter how many times he said goodbye, found a stopping point with his father during his last days, Curtis still thinks of things he wishes he could have said, done, asked, seen.

“Honestly? I’m not sure.” Shiro ran a hand through his silver hair. “We were still trying, and I think we were making progress, but...well, we just ran out of time. And I’ll always have questions, but I don’t have regrets.

“These days, I want to move forward. I let so many things slip. Lost my home, most of my things. All of Adam’s things. If it weren’t for Keith…Fuck, I could have lost him too.”

“He said he misses you,” Curtis murmurs.

“Yeah. We live in the same apartment but we barely ever see each other. Even less now, given our hours. I forgot his fucking birthday.”

“Well, we’re making up for it now, hm?” Curtis gives his shoulder a squeeze and turns on the TV. “Also, you’re going to watch _Game of Thrones_ with me because all two of my other friends refuse and I need someone to nerd to.”

Shiro laughs and settles back into the couch, happy just to be there. Taking his time is taking no time at all.

 

“I still remember the first time I ever saw snow,” Lance murmurs. They’re walking back, Keith’s frigid fingers laced with Lance’s gloves. Their shoulders brush as snow gleams underfoot, the moon shines overhead.

“My father woke me up in the middle of the night and wrapped me up in my jacket and then my brothers’ jackets. Then he stole me out of the house and we walked to the park.” Keith is pretty certain they’re walking in a park right now, walking through Lance’s life, silent and still. Everything’s been put on pause, ready to continue once Keith is out of the way.

“I remember he said to me, ‘I know you miss the sun now, but come summer, I promise you’ll miss the snow. It’s human nature, Alejandro, to want whatever’s on the other side. What I wanted for you and your siblings was on the other side of the water, and now I do little but miss what we left behind. But I tell you this: the greatest thing you will do in life is find something you want more than any stretch of land, than anything on any side of the water. More than sun or snow.’”

“You father’s a wise man,” Keith whispers, tightening his grip on Lance’s hand. “I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know snow. It’s just...always been.” Keith has never not known cold. He’s never known warmth. He thinks, turning to look at Lance’s sun-kissed skin, beach-ruffled hair, ocean-blue eyes, that he might be on the brink of learning.

“I love the snow, but he’s right. I can’t wait for summer. Then it’ll get hot and I’ll wish it were snowing. Veronica calls me a ‘fickle little creature.’ I wonder if she’s right.”

“Lance-”

“Don’t let me do that to you,” Lance interrupts. “Please don’t let me string you along. Don’t sit there and be angry if my attention wanders or you find me frustrating. Just...cut me loose, I suppose. I want better for you, Keith. You deserve better.”

The ‘better than me’ sinks like a weight in water, heavier even than the frigid air hanging close to the ground. Keith slips from Lance’s fingers only to put his arm around that slender waist.

“If I can’t let you do that, then you can’t let me ridicule you or be impatient.” Lance stops in his driveway, turning to search those distant eyes. They gaze up at him, large with innocence, edged with personal tragedy. They shine like a pair of amethysts set in alabaster stone, the centrepiece of some ancient shrine come to life, vibrating with some foreign energy lost to the ages. “You’re worth more than that,” Keith whispers.

Lance cradles Keith’s face in long, gloved fingers, the black suede and leather stark against pale skin, invisible in raven tresses, cherry blossom lips paling against the surge of color that rises into his cheeks. Keith shivers as warmth gives way to a familiar unfamiliar heat. It’s familiar because he’s known it many times before in many different faces; it’s unfamiliar because staring into the boundless sea before him, this heat feels new. It’s complicated. Is it?

Keith meets the Latino halfway, pressing his lips against Lance’s, letting the taller man breath new life into his chilled, warming bones. The fingers in his hair, travelling down to his shoulders, down to his waist, are muted beneath the thick coat that smells like summer. Sunlight fills his mouth, his lungs, his brain, pours into his bloodstream as the fingers curl, uncurl, always seeking something new, something more to feel. Golden rays pierce through all the cracks in his marble exterior and warmth breaks through from the inside.

Lance runs his tongue over Keith’s lips and the man parts for him, welcoming him and giving in kind, hands sliding from his waist to his shoulders, drawing him in. Keith’s quiet gravity tugs at him, and Lance moves willingly into his space. Acutely aware of the cold still fighting against his layers and doubtlessly winning against Keith’s, Lance convinces himself to keep it short, drawing back after a minute or two, pressing their foreheads together, noses brushing, hands traveling Keith’s for as best he can through the new layer.

“Can I stay?” Keith whispers. Lance sighs.

“I’ll be honest: I’m exhausted. Flying so much...I got very little sleep. I’m really not up to messing around, I’m afraid.” Keith nestles his head against Lance’s collarbone, pressing kisses to his neck. Long pale fingers find Lance’s waist and he’s about to change his mind-

“I don’t care. I just want to stay.” Teeth graze Lance’s skin. “We can just sleep.”

Lance leans back to tuck a finger under Keith’s chin so he can reclaim those perfect lips, that perfect mouth. He moans into it, backing the smaller man against his Wrangler, letting his hands do what they like, trusting Keith not to mind so much. “I’m...I’m tired too. We can-We can...mnh. We can definitely do that. Mnh. Probably shouldn’t be driving anyway.”

“Yeah, probably.” Keith pulls back, gazing at the dark oceans before him. “We should go inside before we freeze.” Lance grins, rubbing their noses together.

“Sure, come on.”

The inside of Lance’s house is cozy, all rustic neutral tones and blue decorations. There’s still a chandelier in the dining room, but it’s small, casting the living room in a thin layer of warm light. The couch, armchair, and loveseat are blue, and the walls are edged in blue paint. There’s a sword fern on the end of the bar, next to a pillar. The McClain’s wealth is hidden in the newness, the quality, the atmosphere. The care, the dedication is not hidden. Lance’s home is clean, cared for, tended in the way a home is tended when the resident cares very much for it.

Keith lets Lance help him out of his coat, hang it from one of the hooks by the door. “Keys and wallet?” Keith asks, pointing to the labels.

“Oh, right.” Lance sets his wallet on the little ledge and hangs his keys on the respective hook. “I lose my things all the time, so I have a special place for all of my important items. Granted, I don’t always remember to leave them there...or remember where I usually leave them when I forget, but…” Lance sighs. “It helps. Building the habits just takes a very long time.”

Keith wraps his arms around Lance, laying his head on Lance’s chest. Lance’s fingers run through his hair, over his shoulders, down his spine. He lets Lance’s warmth sink into him, tries to give some of it back, give everything he has. “Are you alright?” Lance murmurs.

Keith nods, not sure how to voice his upset. He wants Lance to thrive, to fill all of the empty spaces in his world. There are so many empty spaces. The idea of Lance being limited in any way, being restricted by a disorder creates its own kind of emptiness in his heart.

“Hey, it’s fine. I’m just fine, Keith.” A shock of affection, caution rushes through Lance as he embraces his companion. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“I know. I know there’s not.” Keith does know. As far as he’s concerned, Lance McClain perfect. He’s flawed, heavily, even, but wonderful, resilient, willing, even eager, to change. “I just wish you had it easier.”

“Hmm. I wish you had it easier too,” Lance murmurs.

“Things are better. Shiro is working. Brings home enough in tips to pay for food. Should get paid next week, too.” Lance gently coaxes Keith from him, taking his hand, leading him toward the darkened hallway.

“Right. He’s working for Curtis, the future love of his life, right?”

“Be careful what you say. I don’t wanna scare him off. Shiro’s had a really hard time lately.”

“Hey, my lips are sealed from here on out. Just remind me.” Keith brushes against the taller, leaner man’s side. “So, there’s a guest room, if you want-”

“Can I just stay with you?” Keith asks, the words slipping from his mouth before he can stop them.

Lance only smiles. Lance is made of smiles: sad smiles, happy smiles, soft smiles, warm. He smiles. “Of course you can mi querido, so long as you’re comfortable.”

Which is how Keith finds himself curled into bed with Lance, wearing an ill-fitting set of his host’s pajamas, marveling at the mattress beneath him, the arms around him, holding him close. It doesn’t even feel strange, despite sharing so little. Snuggling in against Lance’s chest, listening to the beat of his heart, he feels more as though he were meant to be here, like he’s been adrift for twenty-four years and has finally come home, settling into the place he’s always meant to be.

"Buenas noches, Keith."

"おやすみ、ランス。"

It’s perfect. It’s simple. It’s terrifying. It’s complex. It’s complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Kindly drop questions, comments, concerns, suggestions, and complaints below! I'd love to hear from you.


	5. Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you leave, can I come with you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long! My life is a disaster and so am I.

Shiro isn’t sure what’s changed when he first wakes. Many things have changed, are changing. He’s lying on something like an actual bed, beneath a thick blanket. There’s warmth, something new, something familiar. What’s changed? What hasn’t changed?

“Before you panic, nothing happened. You just crashed on my futon.” Shiro forces his eyes open with a groan, blinking in the light that floods his senses. “I’m sorry.”

Taking inventory, Shiro is still clothed, his breath doesn’t taste like alcohol, he isn’t sore. He is untouched. He is still untouched. He hasn’t been untouched in over a decade. It’s complicated. 

Shiro pulls his phone from his pocket to see a text from Keith.

 **Keith:** Not coming home. Please take care of Kosmo for me. I’ll make it up to you

“Oh, shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Keith didn’t go home last night. Which means Kosmo hasn’t been out in almost a day. And definitely made a mess on the floor.”

“Not good for a shepherd, being shut up like that.”

“It’s not an ideal breed. Got him for Keith before things got so...difficult. We didn’t have the heart to get rid of him. Couldn’t even bring myself to suggest it, to be honest.” Shiro sighs. “I’d better go take care of him.” Shiro hesitates, picking up his feet, his worn coat, his resolve from the hardwood floor. “You can come with me, if you want.”

Curtis looks at the back before him, the defeated, hopeful, neutral shoulders, spreading before him all of what Shiro feels and what he wants Curtis to see. Curtis reaches out, fingertips brushing fingertips, fingertips falling in surrender. “I’d be happy to.” 

The defeat, hope, neutrality shift, rearrange, reorder themselves beneath Shiro’s layers, and Curtis smiles at the clean straight line that sags slightly, only slightly, at either end. Clambering to his feet, Curtis comes to stand by Shiro’s side. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

There’s nowhere else.

 

Keith wakes to warmth, to pale winter sunlight bleeding into his skin, beneath his eyelids. The surface beneath him is warm, soft, smooth, unlike anything he’s ever felt before. The body curled around his is warm, soft, smooth, like something he’s felt only once before. He’s learning to love it quickly, too quickly. It’s terrifying. It’s exhilarating. It’s complicated.

There’s a series of chimes as the security code is keyed in, the opening, closing of a door. Keith’s eyes are open in a second, flaring wide, narrowing. Slowly, silently, carefully, Keith slips from Lance’s grip, slips from the bed, slips his knife from his pants on the floor, slips down the hall. He lifts his feet high so that the extra few inches of fabric Lance’s legs require don’t drag the ground as he walks.

There’s a man in the foyer, old, slightly stooped, strong in stance, in build, in presence. He’s gazing down at two pairs of shoes side by side, one new, one old. “¿Quién eres?”

Keith hears the question, knows the question, even if he doesn’t know the words. He draws his knife, ready for a fight, ready to defend, conscious of the sleeping man in the master bedroom lying vulnerable, defenseless. “You first.”

The man turns, familiar brown skin, freckles, cheekbones, smile. He holds a future in the familiarity of his face and the part of himself Keith has always denied wants that future for his own. “I am Leo McClain, Lance McClain’s father. ¿Quién eres?”

The man’s accent is rich sunset colors, warm and inviting in the dead of winter. It’s stronger than Lance’s, older, aged like fine wine on the shores of Cuba. There’s an entirely different life tucked away in Leo McClain’s voice, a massive voyage, an undertaking. Knowing what little he does of this man’s life, Keith wonders that there’s any wind left for the man to sail with. Yet, here he is, looming over Keith with a mere glance. Keith has never felt so small. Life has made him feel small.

“Keith Kogane. Lance’s...Whatever. I was invited to be here.” He'd actually invited himself, in a way, but it's all semantics. In hindsight, Keith is surprised by his own daring. He blames exhaustion.

Leo McClain raises an eyebrow, appraising the young man before him. He’s on the shorter side, but only just, with a slender, robust build. Monolid eyes stare unwavering, dark with storms. The blade in the young man’s hand does not tremble, held with experience, confidence, resolve. Beneath his scrutiny, a bit of color rises in the man’s cheeks, betraying a shyness Leo wouldn’t expect. Objectively, Leo can tell the man is beautiful, with the effeminacy his son favors. He sees what his son likes, sees what he himself likes: intelligence, resolve, unwavering loyalty already past its infancy.

“I see. Bienvenidos, Keith. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Leo offers the man his hand, and those dark eyes narrow, rove over his form before the knife switches hands and Keith accepts his offer.

“Likewise. I think.” Those eyes avert their gaze, color deepening, self-assurance replaced with a downtrodden spirit. Fascinating, yet Leo is saddened to see the youth so seemingly beaten down.

“Tell me,” Leo calls, heading for the kitchen. “What is it that you do for a living? What are your talents?”

“Oh.” Keith’s shoulders sag under the weight of the question, the last question he’d want this man to ask. He holds his gaze on the snowy lawn outside the sliding doors. There’s a back patio, he realizes, with an outdoor fire pit and furniture. He can see the outlines of garden plots. He imagines Lance loves to be outside, belongs out under the sun. He doesn’t belong here. “During the day, I’m a mechanic. At-at night, I’m head waiter at a high-end restaurant.”

Leo pulls eggs, vegetables, cream from the fridge, bread from the freezer, coffee grounds from the pantry. Turning, he sees the man standing behind him, sees where the weariness comes from. “A mechanic, you say? So you have some education, si?”

“Y-yeah-I mean, yes. I went to a trade school.”

“So if you are smart enough to fix cars, you must be smart enough to help me make omelettes, si? Ven! Ven! I don’t bite, mijo!” Blushing, the youth finally gives him a cautious smile, stepping into the kitchen as though he expects to be thrown out at any moment. Leo chuckles. “You remind me of myself the first time my old friends Alfor and Coran invited me into their home. I too was convinced I did not belong. I imagined I would be thrown out in moments. They kept me guessing for over an hour. Thought it was hilarious.”

“What exactly do you want from me, sir?” Keith sighs. He’s not had nearly enough rest to handle this. The mention of "Clean" tickles at his thoughts, but he brushes it aside as coincidence.

“Well, aside from checking in on my son, I was hoping for conversation. Much like my Alejandro, I do enjoy it, and Big House is empty right now.” Leo sighs as he pulls out a small pan and adds some oil from the strange bottle on the counter. “But you needn’t if you’re not comfortable. I talk just fine all by myself.”

Leo McClain’s eyes sparkle, the foreign brown hue hidden beneath layers of familiar, unfamiliar sunrays. Keith cracks a small smile, blushing all the while. Leo struggles to catch the man’s gaze, to hold it. “So does Lance,” he murmurs.

“Si, he does. I confess, when he went away to college, the house seemed so quiet without his constant babbling.” Leo laughs. “How is mi Alejandro these days? I’m afraid we don’t talk like we used to.”

“Isn’t ‘Alejandro’ just ‘Alexander?’” Keith asks, avoiding a question he doesn’t know how to answer.

“Si. But he didn’t want to be called Alex. I...made an error, when we first came here. I instructed my children to have people call them by Western names. I believed it would help them fit in better. For most of them, it was easy. A minor shift in pronunciation. For mi Alejandro...There was a boy at school named Alex who would bully my children. My son wanted nothing to do with it. So he elected to be called ‘Lance’ instead. I would say it suits him better. For more than one reason.”

“Is that a jab?” Keith’s voice comes out quieter, more menacing, than he intends. He doesn’t retrace his words. “I’d say he’s turned it around, wouldn’t you?”

“I would, were it not for your presence in his home-”

“That Nyma bitch isn’t around anymore, so you can-” This boy’s patience is lacking, a concern that ripples over Leo consciousness. 

“Relájate, Keith,” Leo McClain murmurs, chopping vegetables. He speaks softly the same way that Shiro does. It’s a whisper that bounces off the walls, shakes Keith to his core, sets the stars shivering in their orbits. “I merely meant that ‘Alex’ does not suit my boy. As for Miss Nyma...I wish her the best of luck. May she find it far away from my son. Or any of my children, for that matter. Forgive me. I was not aware.” Leo heaves a sigh, and his sparkling face ages a thousand years.

“He misses you,” Keith blurts. He can’t help it. Lance does not deserve pain. “He told me. I don’t think he wants to go back. I thinks he’s learning to like the person that he is.” 

Leo turns to see the man studying the cobblestone floor, smiling, blushing down at some spot on the grout. Something inside Leo breaks even as it heals, flooding him with relief, heartbreak at the realization that he will surely lose his child to the person before him. He tempers a parent’s grief with the joy that someone is capable of loving his son as he needs, as he deserves: with all their heart, body, and spirit.

“And you, mijo? Do you like the person that he is?” Leo would still have him say it. “Do you like my son?”

“I-” Keith blushes darker, blindsided by such a direct question. Shiro, Pidge, his coworkers merely tease him, make comments about his ‘friend.’ No one has ever really asked. He meets those brown eyes, ageless in an aged face, steels himself to tell the truth. “Very much. For a long time.”

It’s different, to say it out loud, to confess his sins to the man who helped to make them, the devil that laid such sweet temptation before him. In his defense, Leo doesn’t look particularly displeased that he gave in.

“Good. I confess I am curious as to the ‘long time,’ however. Do you care to elaborate?” Keith says nothing. He does not care to elaborate, not to a man he’s only just met…

 

_His eyes are still burning, and he knows they’re red around the edges as he stumbles over to the couple at the table. He tries his best for a smile, but his brother is still in critical condition and he’s been informed that if he doesn’t work tonight, he won’t work here ever again. Shiro will need him. Shiro needs him. He shouldn’t be here. He has to be here. Shiro needs him. Shiro needs him. It’s complicated._

_Keith’s only had to disappear once to cry, which he considers a triumph of his willpower. In the distance, at the edges of his hearing, he hears the restaurant owner hollering at the manager. People have complained that he’s unpleasant, ruining their experience. Keith can’t find the spirit to care. It’s not his fault he’s here. No one wants him here. Shiro wants him, needs him here, wants him, needs him there. It a vicious tangle of thoughts._

_“Welcome to Garrison’s Italian Restaurant. My name is Keith; I’ll be your waiter tonight. May I start you off with some drinks?” The woman, dressed in a revealing garb, is on her phone, elbows propped up on the table. The man is staring into his empty wine glass, rolling it obnoxiously through his fingers. He’ll likely ask for a new one, complaining about unsightly prints._

_“Yeah, we’ll have wine. And before you ask, I don’t care which one. Just make it quick.” The woman doesn’t look up from her phone. Keith falters, uncertain what to do. His head feels swollen, like it might explode or perhaps float off into space. He feels like he’s drifting away, cast away, cast off like a broken net no one will bother to try and repair._

_He turns to the gentleman for help, and the lump in his throat catches. He’s beautiful: large, brilliant blue eyes, freckles smattered over his delicate features glowing with the summer sun, setting the world ablaze. Brown hair is tossed every which way like he just rolled in off the beach. All of that hits him like a tidal wave, hardly registers as that precious, merciful face gazes up at him with kindness, concern._

_“Excuse me, sir. Are you alright?” It takes everything in Keith’s power not to collapse into tears. Somebody cares. Somebody in this miserable world actually cares._

_“I-I’m fine, thank you. It’s just been a long day.” It’s been so very, very long. “Do you have a preference for drinks, sir?”_

_“We’ll have a brunello, please.” Thank God this man isn’t making him choose or think too hard. “Thank you.” Keith disappears to the staff bathroom again, curled up against the door. Someone cares._

_The rudeness of the woman continues throughout the meal, but the kindness of her date manages to more than make up for it._

_“If you wouldn’t mind,” the man murmurs, handing Keith his card some eternity later. “I’d like to speak with the owner before we leave.” His date scoffs and Keith sees a flicker of irritation in those enchantingly blue eyes. “And your manager.”_

_Keith swallows hard, nodding. This couldn’t possibly be a good thing. “Mr. Iverson,” he whispers, finding the owner now speaking in a low, angry voice to the trembling manager. “The guest at table seven wishes to speak with you both when you have a minute.”_

_“Fine,” Iverson growls. Then he continues, “And I wanna speak to_ you _right after.” So he’s to be fired anyway? Fine. At least someone will be there when Shiro wakes up. They’re all they’ve got left, now. Loss pierces his heart. He’ll be the one to tell Shiro that Adam is gone. The promise that there is a future in store for them is gone. He chokes down another sob as he runs the check, staring at the name on the card._

_He scurries away after delivering the receipt, content to be invisible while Iverson and the manager whose name he never bothered to learn are told that he doesn’t deserve to be there by some man who’s been handed everything he’s ever wanted from the moment he was born._

_The man and his unpleasant date are the last to leave, and Keith sits in the woman’s abandoned seat, face in his hands. Dragging his thin, shaking fingers down his face, he sighs and takes the receipt, staring down at the looping signature._ Lance McClain. _The little heart on the ‘i’ makes the corner of his mouth waver, smile as brief, as fragile as a feather in the wind. There’s a note on the back:_

“I’m almost certain you lied to me this evening when you told me you were just tired. I’m so very sorry for your pain, whatever it may be. I hope it can be fixed. 

“Whether it can or not, I promise you, Keith, tomorrow will be kinder.”

_Beneath the receipt are three pristine hundred-dollar bills. It’s too much. The kindness is too much. Keith buries his face in his hands and sobs._

_Tomorrow_ is _kinder, if only because the manager that threatened to fire him has been fired herself and Iverson sends him away with pay to be with Shiro until he wakes up six days later._

_When he returns next Friday, fresh from a funeral, heavy heart still bereaved, and finds Mr. Lance McClain has returned with his girlfriend, Keith manages to work a ‘thank you’ past his lips before running off to hide his blushing face._

_Mr. Lance McClain never does let it go. Instead, he asks after his wellbeing, offers kindness, acknowledgement that Keith is a human being, worthy of being cared about._

_Keith learns to look forward to Fridays, when he can be reminded that he’s human, that he matters, even if only a little._

 

The sound of a screen door closing interrupts his thoughts. His eyes soften, the defensive wall breached, a ray of golden sunlight streaming through a thin crack in the old stone. “It was the worst day of my life. I thought I was about to be alone...They told me the only person I had was dying, and Lance cared, even though he didn’t know about any of it. I never forgot that. And then he came back again and asked if I was doing better. I didn’t forget that either.”

“How long ago was this?” Leo asks, watching emotions flash through the young man’s eyes like lightning. Keith wraps his arms around himself, and Leo wonders if it’s to protect himself or to give himself the comfort clearly denied him. “Is your brother the only person you have that cares for you?”

“Eight months ago.” Keith stares at the stone floor. “We’re orphans. Never adopted. I guess we adopted each other. But yeah. Just him. Maybe Curtis, Shiro’s boss. No one else, really. No one before him, either. And Lance, too, now. I suppose. Maybe.”

That blush, that shy smile returns, curling up the corners of Keith’s mouth, softening his contracted brows, his eyes, his body. The arms tighten in time with Leo’s heart. 

“I suppose so,” Leo murmurs. “Want to see a magic trick?”

“What?” Keith’s eyes flick suspiciously toward the older man, only to see that familiar, unfamiliar sparkle in those brown eyes.

“There is a legend back in Cuba that says if you make coffee, a McClain man will appear before your very eyes.”

Keith coughs out a laugh, a crooked smile crossing cherry blossom lips. There’s a brief spark of life in his eyes, and Leo is flooded with relief. This man is not broken, not yet. There’s fire in him still, dimmed, gasping for air, but not yet extinguished.

The scent of coffee fills the house, and a few moments later, a breath of fresh air stumbles down the hall and drapes itself over Keith’s shoulders, not quite yet fully awake.

“Buenos dias,” Lance murmurs, pressing a kiss to the back of Keith’s neck. “What are you up to?”

“おはよう。” Keith blushes at the contact. He has an audience. He’s uncomfortable beneath the elder man’s gaze. “I heard someone come in.”

“Yes. Tu novio drew a knife on me, mijo.” Leo laughs, amused, good-natured. “Me gusta, mijo. Es dulce. Y timido. No lo asustes con todo tu ruido.”

“Si, es muy dulce,” Lance murmurs, turning his head so he can rest it on the slope of Keith’s broad shoulders and still see his father. His fingers slip just under the hem of Keith’s shirt, seeking out the slow heat of his skin. “Mamá necesitará un poco convincente, pero me gusta mucho.”

“Tenemos tiempo antes de eso. Depende de tu decirle, mijo.” Lance nods, pressing a kiss to whatever part of Keith is closest. He knows this. He despises displeasing his mother just as he does his father. He’s not afraid of making choices his parents will question. He’s afraid of their disappointment; he’s always been a disappointment.

“Me gusta mucho,” Lance murmurs again, wrapping his arms more tightly around Keith’s waist. “Did you make coffee? I can smell it.”

“We did. Something about a Cuban legend.” Lance giggles, enjoying the heat that rolls off Keith’s body like a heavy fog. “And I think your dad is making breakfast.” 

Lance hums in compliance, content to cling to Keith until it’s time to eat. Keith is content to enjoy Lance’s warmth, his solid weight. Leo blends eggs together and goes to add milk.

“Please no milk in mine,” Keith mumbles, wishing he didn’t have to say anything. “I’m lactose intolerant.”

“Then I shall make yours first,” Leo murmurs, smiling as he moves around the couple. He can’t remember such behavior from Nyma, from Lance. “You just tend to my son.”

“No, no. Let me help. And by help, I mean make a better omelette than you,” Lance says, drawing his arms from around Keith, who does his utmost not to look disappointed, put out. The gentle lips pressed against his warming cheek a moment later tell him that he’s failed.

“In your dreams, mijo.” Lance snorts and grabs a second small pan, tossing in a random assortment of vegetables and a bit of oil as Leo lights the stove.

“Oh yeah? I’m going to sleep well tonight.” Keith leans against the counter and watches, smiling. Lance says he misses his father, but it’s clear banter is not one of their struggles. A fluffy grey kitten with blue eyes weaves in between his legs.

“Whatever you say, mocoso.”

“I’m gonna kick your ass, old man. That’s what I say.” Lance cooks with deft skill, hands moving with finesse, enjoying their occupation. His life has been one long quest to occupy his hyperactive digits. As a result, Lance has become an exceptional cook.

“How are you, mijo? I asked much of you. Are you well?” There’s a sudden quiet about the kitchen. Keith watches, curious. He assumes this is how families interact.

“I’m still tired, but I’m alright. Our ports seem to be running smoothly. I have concerns about Ritzu running our port in Tokyo. His...connections… appear to be somewhat frayed. I spoke to said connections, and they assured me our friendship is intact, for the time being. However, if Ritzu does not alter his behavior, they may have to step in.”

Keith listens, and his understanding of Lance McClain shifts yet again. He has no illusions as to what Lance means by ‘friends,’ yet he finds himself thoroughly unconcerned. Instead, he finds himself curious.

“There are things in this world,” Leo murmurs, turning to Keith for a brief minute, “that one cannot do without some questionable alliances. Understand that my son trusts you greatly.” Keith shrugs. Six months of his life were nothing more than questionable alliances. “Ay, mijo. This came for you from Copenhagen.”

Lance squeals with delight as Leo passes him a phone. “Thank God! I’m lost without it!”

“I know you are,” Leo says, laughter in his voice. “Go charge it, hmm?”

“Nice try! I’m not about to neglect this omelette. You won’t win that easily!” Keith doesn’t mind as the two switch to Spanish yet again, perhaps better able to insult each other in their native tongue. He can still read Lance’s face, read their banter. When Leo passes an omelette to him, Keith nods in thanks, unsure what to say, unable to find words to break through their familial bonds. He’s an intruder, nothing more.

“Mine is better,” Lance declares.

“Perhaps if tu novio can handle a bite, he can judge for us.” Leo turns Keith with a raised eyebrow.

“I can-I can do that much, yeah.” Keith carefully takes a bite of both omelettes. He’s never tasted such good food outside of Garrison’s. Fresh vegetables are expensive, cream not worth the money it costs even if Keith were able to stomach it. “I don’t know. They’re both really good.” Keith shrugs, handing Lance’s plate back.

“Tu novio is a garbage disposal, isn’t he? You’ll eat anything, won’t you, mijo?” Lance’s eyes fly to his father in an instant, and Keith wonders at the surprise on his face. He simply shrugs again.

“I’ve never been one to turn down free food.”

Leo laughs, loud and clear. Lance clearly inherited his father’s high spirits. “You’re a smart man, Keith. Ven, ven! This one is almost done, and we will eat together!” 

Keith sits stiffly at the table, hands folded in his lap, while Lance and his father discuss the details of their Japanese airport in Spanish. He doesn’t belong. He’s an outsider. He’s a spy, an eavesdropper, an intruder; he’s a usurper, pretending at a life with other people in it.

“Ay, mi querido. Do you not like it after all? I can make you something else if you like. Or are you not feeling well after trying my omelette? Perhaps there was too much milk after all.” 

Keith merely stares, marveling at the many words Lance manages to waste, at how little he himself actually minds. Were it anyone else, Keith’s patience would have run out three sentences ago. It takes a few moments for words to come to him. “N-no. It’s fine. Really! I just…”

Keith turns his head away, turns his gaze to the corner of the solid wood table. _I just don’t belong here._ Beneath the table, the kitten curls around his ankles and a warm hand is laid over his. “You’re meant to be here, Keith,” the man whispers softly. “I invited you, remember? I want you here.” 

Keith nods, not wanting to argue, and takes a bite of his cooling breakfast. Lance slides his coffee closer to him before taking a sip of his own.

“Say, mijo. I’ve been thinking. Christmas is coming up soon.”

“Yes. Two weeks from now. I remembered this year.” Lance grins, proud, delighted, triumphant. Keith cracks a smile, pushing aside the ache in his heart. The food tastes even better than it did but moments ago. “What about it?”

“I know you’re still missing Blueberry, but I’ve been thinking about adding a horse or two to our herd. Perhaps one could be yours. Your gift for this Christmas.”

Lance’s fingers tighten momentarily around Keith’s hand before he speaks. Keith can feel the man's child-like excitement. “Yes, I’d like that. I’ve missed having my own horse.”

“What should I look for, then?”

“I don’t want an easy ride. I want someone that I must communicate with. Larger in size, sound, good breeding. A thoroughbred would be good. But that’s only a preference. I could care less about pedigree as long as he’s healthy.”

“He?”

“Yes. I’d prefer a gelding, to be honest. Far more amiable, far less drama.” Lance and Leo begin a discussion of horse temperaments, and Keith takes the opportunity to listen. He learns that mares are drama and stallions are trouble and geldings -whatever those are- tend to be very sweet. Keith assumes a gelding is a castrated horse. He’ll look it up later.

Father and son carry on, conversation shifting rapidfire from one topic to the next, going from horses to saddles -whatever those are- to leather to shoes to the latest fashions to Veronica’s wedding to a smart comment about Keith.

It’s an eternity before Leo McClain makes his exit; it’s not even an hour. The entire time his father is there, Lance holds Keith’s hand under the table, untroubled eating with his left hand. Keith wonders if the man was born ambidextrous, or if he learned. Both seem equally likely.

He appreciates the warmth woven between his fingers. It tethers him to the room, keeps him from drifting away into the winter outside. He appreciates it more once Leo McClain has gone, and his beloved son, the one with summer in his skin, the sea in his eyes, the breeze in his hair, pulls him into his orbit, presses their lips, their bodies together, wraps him up in a sunlight so bright that for a little while, Keith can’t even see the shadows.

 

“Hi, puppy. Hi. I’m so sorry.” Kosmo’s head is lowered in shame, next to the mess he made on the floor. Shiro reaches out and rubs the dog’s head. The still-growing German shepherd wags his tail tentatively, pink tongue curling around Shiro’s prosthetic fingers. Kosmo had been afraid of the metal prosthetic until recently, when Shiro had begun feeding him bacon from his foreign hand. “That’s a good boy. Let’s clean this up and we’ll go for a 散歩.”

“散歩?” Curtis asks as Kosmo’s tail beats out heavy excitement against the floor. Shiro trusts the man to figure out what he means on his own.

“He knows the word in Japanese. All of his indicator words are in Japanese so he doesn’t spaz out when we talk in English. Sometimes we fuck up while speaking Japanese, though.” Curtis chuckles, locks of dark hair falling in front of his face. When he tosses it away, his eyes are sparkling with the same mirth he carries with him every day. It’s a constant joy at life and all it has to offer, a permanent exuberance of youth that Shiro finds pulling him farther and farther out to some unknown sea.

“That’s actually brilliant. I love it. Hey, Red.” Curtis crouches down to try and pet the small tabby, who promptly walks away, tail in the air. “Rude.”

“He’s Keith’s cat. I don’t know what you expected.” 

“I expected nothing, but I’m still let down.” Shiro chuckles. “I can’t believe this is what you’re paying for.”

“Me neither. But they didn’t check his credit, so it was the best he could do.”

“His credit that bad?”

“No, but he never really built any. Didn’t want to risk it.” Curtis nods. It’s probably for the best, given how the brothers’ lives turned out. They deserve better. “I’m going to take him to the park.”

“Can I join you? Coffee’s on me.” Curtis tries not to be hopeful, tries to be realistic. Shiro smiles.

“Sure. I’d be happy if you did.” Shiro’s trying his best. He wants to be open to the future, wants to stop living in the past. The sea is before him, and he yearns to unfurl his sails. The grin Curtis doesn’t quite manage to suppress only helps his feelings.

A few minutes later, they’re walking down the street, heading to the park. The silence is almost awkward, but not quite. It’s nervous, unsure, tentative. It’s made better every time Curtis trips or bumps into something, which is quite often. “What job would you be terrible at?”

“What?” Shiro himself stumbles, surprised by the sudden, random question. Curtis just shrugs and grins. “Well...I think I’d make a terrible veterinarian. I don’t think I could put someone’s pet to sleep. I’d just bawl every time.”

“Are you a cryer, Takashi Shirogane?”

Shiro chuckles, sheepish. “A bit, I’m afraid. I guess I’m soft on the inside. Keith says it’s adorable…” Curtis gives a soft laugh. “What about you? What job would you be terrible at.”

Curtis’ grin is wicked, eyes mischievous as he says, “Priest.” Shiro throws back his head and laughs. “I know, I know. I’m the worst. But in all seriousness, I’d actually make a terrible doctor. Or anything where I have to be...well, serious, really. I’m a joker and little else.”

 _You’re much more than that._ “You own a bar. You’re practically a psychologist. I think. I forget quite what the joke is.” 

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I take my job seriously. Last partner I had left because she was worried she’d throttle my shitlord ass.”

“Yes, you do. You take things seriously.” Shiro rolls his eyes. “You just don’t act like it.”

“Thanks, Shiro. Appreciate it.” Shiro hums, keeping his companion upright as he slips on a patch of ice. Kosmo speeds up a touch, eager to get to the park. He doesn’t pull on the leash or break away from Shiro’s left side, but the pup lets out a whine all the same.

“I know buddy. We’re almost there.” Keith has put a lot of time and effort into training his dog. Shiro has no idea when, but he has. He adores his dog, dotes on his dog as much as he can. Shiro wonders if that will change now that Lance is in the picture.

The park is nearly abandoned, save the random homeless person and a few couples, some with dogs, some without. It’s cold, frigid even. It’s the kind of cold that freezes the mist on their breath. Curtis runs off to buy coffee as Shiro walks on toward the gated dog park. It’s amazing what a week of purpose has done for Shiro. He stands straighter, moves with some semblance of life. There is wind beneath his feet and fresh air in his lungs. Curtis smiles. 

Faith is a tricky thing; he’s never had much. His father had a great deal, not that it did much for him in the end. Anish Dayal, the man with no ruler, was just that: an unconquerable mountain of a man, average in height, above average for an Indian, above average in presence, in charisma. In hindsight, Anish may have been the one to turn Adam against his son. Perhaps Adam heard when Anish said of Shiro, ‘Son, that is the only man I would accept for you. You may have that one, a woman, or none at all.’ Archaic perhaps, the allowance for any man possibly coming from some sudden need to grow before final decay, but it was something of a curse either way, as Shiro came around far less regularly after that, and never without Adam. Never, until the end. 

 

_“I don’t know how to fix this, Curtis. Is it even worth fixing?”_

_Curtis stares at the young man with his head in his hands. Curtis is barely a man himself, but he feels this man’s grief as his own. It’s in this moment, with an aching heart, Curtis knows what exactly it is to be a man, to be an adult. “It can’t be fixed like new. Nothing is ever the same after being damaged or broken. But that doesn’t mean that it isn’t worth keeping.”_

_Shiro smiles, Curtis tries. He keeps trying when he hears the scrape of tires, crumpling metal, shattering glass three minutes later. He's still trying when help arrives, if only for the sake of the dying man still next to an empty shell of everything he held dear._

**_Nothing is ever the same after being damaged or broken. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth keeping._ **

 

Curtis smiles. He’s always had a fondness for lost and broken things.

 

Keith rolls over to find himself nose to nose with Lance, a smile dancing soft like firelight on a sea of blue. “Why didn’t we plan for a Sunday together in the first place? This is so much better.”

“Either way the ending’s the same,” Keith murmurs with a shrug. “Eventually, one of us will leave and that will be the end of it.”

“The end of today, tomorrow, or us?” Lance asks, brow furrowing, lower lip stuck out just so. Keith can’t think of a response, can’t choose which he believes in the most. All are, to his mind, as inevitable as the turn of the Earth, the next sunrise, the next snowfall. So, instead of answering, Keith brushes his lips, his tongue, along the edge of that lower lip and encourages them to part for him.

Lance acquiesces to Keith’s whims, but with reluctance. He’s gone into this the only way he knows how: expecting forever. Yet, it seems Keith has come into his home with a finite ending already in sight. He pulls away, letting the man’s taste linger on his tongue. “Do you really expect this to end?”

“I...I don’t really see what else there is.” Keith presses their palms together, fingers splayed. Lance’s hands, his palms are large, his fingers long and slender, graceful. They’re hands well suited to hard work, to the most delicate instrument. Keith’s hands are small, fingers slender and strong, calloused from years of the work Lance could do, doesn’t need to do. “But that’s probably my fault.”

“I understand. No one’s ever given you something to keep for yourself. Everything you’ve had was taken for you, or never truly yours.”

“Wow, thanks for summing that up.”

Lance wilts. He doesn’t mean to be blunt, but he only knows two things, his natural, open honesty, and the charming gentleman he wears like a suit. “Apologies. My tact in a familiar setting is-”

“Tactless is better than being your father’s pet.”

It’s Lance’s turn to be irritated, eyes hardening like glass. “I’m not a pet. Just because I’m different doesn’t make me a pet.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just meant I like you better honest. That’s all. When you talk like you do in public, I feel like I have something lacking. I don't-I don't know how to be good enough for you.” Keith sighs, fingers brushing golden-brown skin, trying to appease. He’s unsure of what he’s doing, he just knows there’s a chance to have something more in his life.

“You are good enough. You’re kind, smart, independent. Resourceful. Also, you’re a cat person _and_ a dog person, so…” Keith finds himself laughing, blinking in the light coming of that sun-kissed skin. 

Lance’s smile fades, giving way to thoughtfulness. Keith could watch Lance’s face all day, watch the smiles, the frowns, the crinkles at the corners of those ocean eyes, the freckles dancing across his skin. “What is it?”

“There’s something I desire to do today, and I don’t wish to do it unless I have another adult with me.”

“What is it?” Keith asks, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He registers the shift in Lance’s voice, the formal request for a favor hidden beneath a simple explanation.

“I wish to take mis sobrinos to visit a certain dog breeder. Sylvio, my nephew, he’s highly allergic to dogs. Not like, epipen allergic, but he can’t be around them. There’s a breeder on the other side of the city that breeds hypoallergenic dogs. I want to see if Sylvio will be allergic.” Lance smiles, soft, fond, gentle. “Sylvio loves dogs. They both do.”

It’s there again, that nagging idea at the back of Keith’s mind that his bitterness toward the affluent is not entirely founded. Lance has rarely proved selfish, more often proved generous.

“If you want me to come with you, I need new clothes,” Keith says, deciding he might as well come along. “They’re probably covered in fur. German shepherds shed like you wouldn’t believe. Also, you’ll have to explain why you need adult supervision.”

Lance laughs, indulgent, sweet. “We can wash them. It won’t take long, since it’s only one outfit. And yes, I will explain soon. Te prometo, mi querido.” The man pushes a lock of dark hair out of Keith’s face, enjoying the pink spreading across his cheeks. “What should we do until then, hmm?”

Keith just laughs, leaning in to slot their lips together, weave fingers into those wild locks of soft brown hair. “Something else. We’ve got all-well, most of the day. Eventually, I have to go home. I have work at six tomorrow.”

“Great! We can watch television and play with my spaz cat.”

“Awesome.” Keith leans in again, slipping his tongue just inside Lance’s mouth. It’s passionate, warm, a spice hopeful. There’s a little something more than there was. Lance pulls away, beaming. Something other than sex is appreciated, something equally substantial, even more important.

“Awesome.”

 

“So what’s your favorite season?” Curtis asks, throwing a tennis ball as hard as he can for the joyous shepherd. Kosmo goes tearing off after it, pausing to say hello to Emmett, a local man taking a walk with his daughter. Shiro’s never asked what happened to Athena’s mother. 

“Ooh, that’s a good one. I really like spring. I once entertained the idea of opening a flower shop. Sometimes I still do. But I like Autumn, too. I like the colors, and the cold breeze. What’s your favorite season?”

“Whichever one comes next. Hey, Emmett! Hey, Athena!”

“Hello, boys!” The amicable man comes over. “How have you two been?”

“Doing great and getting better!” Curtis says, no hesitation whatsoever. That selfish, grotesquely human part of Shiro hopes that he’s the reason Curtis is getting better.

“I’m doing well,” Shiro says. “Working again.”

“That’s wonderful! So many people dream of the day when they no longer have to work but I ask, what will you do with all of that time? I like my work. It gives me purpose.”

“It’s certainly doing me some good.” Shiro smiles. Emmett and Athena spend much of their weekend at the park. It’s impossible not to become friends if one is a regular. The man is simply too friendly to be ignored.

Curtis chats brightly to Emmett and Athena, asking if she’s out of school for the winter yet and how she’s doing in her classes, how she’s doing in dance, whether she’s managed to beg her way into getting that bearded dragon yet. Athena sadly says she hasn’t, but she doesn’t see her father’s wink, either.

Shiro simply smiles, throwing the tennis ball for Kosmo. He likes Curtis’ voice. It’s not particularly calm, or particularly deep. It’s actually relatively nondescript, wouldn’t leave any impression at all on its own. It wouldn’t, were it not for the bright, happy tone that invades every corner of Shiro’s hearing every time the man speaks.

Curtis’ father, Anish, was an open, somewhat gruff man, blunt, to the point. People often disputed, sometimes out of earshot, sometimes not, whether the man could actually be considered kind or friendly, but it was never disputed that Anish Dayal found joy in one thing: his son. The tiny pride flags, one bisexual and one gay, that appeared on Curtis’ register the day he was old enough to start working attested to this, as did the fact that it was never a question that Curtis would inherit everything his father possessed.

If there was one thing Anish didn’t have, had longed for, it was his son’s attitude on life. Curtis had grown up knowing, thanks to his father’s philosophy that children are capable of understanding pain, that he had very nearly perished during his own birth. Rather than darkening the man’s disposition, Curtis has grown into a man that adores being alive, revels in all the joys, the struggles that come with it. 

Watching the man build a snowman with Emmett and Athena, Shiro wonders if he can learn to enjoy life again himself. He knows he wants to.

 

Keith hovers back just a few paces as Lance rings the doorbell to the main house. From across the lake, the building is impressive enough, but standing right in front of it, gazing up at the expanse of stone and windows, he feels insignificant. A man’s value, despite what people might say, is determined by what he has to his name, and Keith has far, far too little to stand where he is.

An older woman opens the door. “Hello, Master McClain. Are you here to see the children?”

“Привет, Anya.” Lance takes her hands, kisses her cheek. “How are you? Mis sobrinos running you ragged?”

“Well enough, Солнышко. And of course they are. They take after their favorite Дядя.”

Lance chuckles darkly. “I should hope not, for their sakes.”

“Nonsense, Солнышко. If they grow up to be half as sweet as you are, the world will be better for it.”

Lance squeezes the woman’s withering hands again. Anastasia Petrov has raised him just as much as his own mother and father have. She’s remained with the family since her hiring eighteen years ago. “They’ll be far sweeter with you managing them. But I’m afraid I must steal them away for a few hours.”

“Of course, Солнышко. Give me a minute and I shall retrieve them. Then you can introduce me to your friend.” Lance smiles, knowing without looking that Keith is doubtless blushing under the attention. Anya disappears into the house and Keith leans to try and see the inside. Just beyond is a large hall with a double staircase and smaller halls leading off on either end. Below and beyond the staircase is glass leading to an inner courtyard with snow-covered trees. There’s a large chandelier hanging above the staircase landing. 

Keith leans away.

“Do you want to go inside? It’s cold out here.” Lance smiles warmly, and Keith’s blood runs hot. He’s unsure if Lance wants to show him his childhood home or if the man himself is cold, but he’s sure he doesn’t belong. “Ay, mi querido. Don’t look like that. Mi casa es su casa, and that includes Big House.”

Keith sighs, wrapping his arms around himself. He doesn’t know how to voice the feelings looming over him just as Big House looms over him. He’s a spectator, an imposter, a small, insignificant man in an expensive coat trying to blend in, pretend he belongs.

Lance sighs. Despite the disorganized, dysfunctional state of his mind, he has some idea of Keith’s thoughts. He knows, not firsthand, but secondhand from his father, how it feels to be drawn into this life so very suddenly. Lance was young enough that he no longer remembers.

He remembers how Alfor set his father at ease. “Come, mi querido. It’ll be a few more minutes before Anya manages to get mis sobrinos ready to go anywhere. I have something I want to show you!”

Lance grabs Keith by the arm and pulls him into the house, ignoring Keith’s dragging feet. “See that chandelier?” The chandelier in question seems only just slightly out of touch with the rest of the house. “It was a gift from Alfor and Coran when we moved in. I always wanted to swing from it when I was young. I definitely climbed all over the banisters. Slid down them a few times. Hung from them upside down. Drove my mother to tears. She was certain she’d find me dead, head cracked open. She almost did, a few times.”

Lance finally wrings a midnight-colored laugh out of his companion. “I believe you.”

Lance beams, pleased, proud of himself. “I knew you were smart. Come, mi querido. I want to show you the courtyard. We don’t have time for much else, but you’ll like this.”

Keith _does_ like the courtyard. It’s large, rectangular, the centrepoint to the rest of Big House. The trees are small, carefully maintained as to not grow too large. A statue of some saint Keith has seen before but doesn’t know, has never known gazes lovingly down at a small pond with a waterfall. The water contains some exceptionally beautiful koi fish. There are plots, carefully outlined in stone, where in the spring and summer, flowering plants must grow. Evergreen ivy crawls up the trellises and walls, providing life in lifeless winter. Lighting fixtures offer artificial sunlight during the many hours where the sun is obstructed by the surrounding walls. In the absence of sunlight, the McClains learned to make their own. It’s admirable, Keith decides.

“I like it,” the shorter man murmurs, crouching in the thin layer of snow to observe the fish. “I like your pond.”

Lance chuckles as Keith sticks his bare finger in the water, playing with the friendly little fish. One, solid red, comes up and mouths at his pale fingers. The man grins in delight, expression surprisingly soft. “That one is an beni-goi. And this yellow one is a yamabuki ogon. The white is a platinum ogon. The one with the weird blue on its head is a gin rin asagi. Then there’s this back hajiro. And finally, a kin ki utsuri. This one is slightly unusual, if you ask me. I swear she looks green in certain light. Veronica and I bought them as a gift for our parents on their anniversary.

“They’re getting quite big. I think soon we’ll have to get a bigger pond. Big enough to swim in. Maybe put in a Japanese maple. Though heaven knows mis sobrinos don’t need another body of water to ‘accidentally’ fall into.”

“Which one is your favorite?” Keith asks, playing with the hajiro. He smiles at Lance’s babbling. It would be exhausting, usually is, but Lance always seems so delighted to talk to him, and Keith doesn’t mind listening. He doesn’t mind that someone is happy to talk to him.

“I like the asagi. He’s a weird one, and a little goofy. Kinda like me.” Lance beams, and Keith swears his entire world falters for a second. He doesn’t have long to dwell on this, thoughts interrupted by four small feet before they’ve even begun.

“Tío Lance! Tío Lance!” A boy and a girl come running into the courtyard, colliding with the tall man with cheers of joy.

The boy, Sylvio, climbs up his uncle like a monkey until he’s situated on Lance’s shoulders. “¿A dónde vamos? Anya no nos dirá nada.”

“¿Es un lugar divertido? ¿Vamos al parque?” the girl, Nadia, asks, clinging to his leg, little hands curled into his coat.

“¿Las películas?”

“¿El centro comercial?”

Lance gives a sparkling laugh as he lifts up his niece. “Silencio, niños! We are not going to any of those places. I promised Anya an afternoon off, but I have a friend I must speak to, so you two are coming with me.”

“¿Quién es?” Nadia asks, eyeing Keith from her place in Lance’s arms.

“This is Keith. He’s coming with us.” Lance kisses the top of her head. “Say hi.” 

The girl waves at him shyly, Sylvio just smiling at him as he wraps his arms around Lance’s neck, rests his chin in the wind-tossed brown hair. “Hi.”

Keith melts beneath the girl’s shyness, the boy’s quiet, simple acceptance of his existence. “Hi, Sylvio. Hi, Nadia.”

The boy gasps. “Tío Lance, sabe nuestros nombres!”

Lance chuckles, and Keith can hear the affection in Lance’s voice. “Yes, he does know your names. I told him all about what brats you are!” 

The teasing continues all the way to the car, the children dishing whatever they take. Keith smiles, nervous, shy, willing to give this a chance. He’s already met two of Lance’s family members, his childhood best friend. They were kind to him, if protective in their turn. He chooses to give these children the same chance.

Having never been around children much, Keith discovers quickly that they can be very different. Sylvio is very talkative, babbling on and on about anything, everything: crayons, cartoons, K-pop music videos, Christmas, dogs, Christmas, school, Christmas. Nadia is very quiet, very shy. Keith sees the way she sits small in the backseat, hands clasped in her lap, eyes out the window, unfocused, unseeing. Keith wonders if she dislikes him, knows he doesn’t belong.

“She’ll be better once she gets used to you,” Lance whispers. “She’s just very shy.”

Keith nods in understanding. Not a stranger to shyness himself, he imagines the world must be a scary place for the tiny girl. He decides to try and make it a little better, as best he knows how. “Hey, Nadia?”

The small girl looks up, eyes large and brown. She says nothing.

“Are you excited for Christmas?” The girl nods. “What do you think you’ll get?”

Nadia gives a shy smile and a shrug. “Do you think you’ll get lots of presents?”

She nods. “Tío Lance always gives the best presents though.”

“Really?” Keith turns to Lance, eyes the smug smile on the heir’s face. “I can buy that.”

“Tío Lance is very nice. He’s my favorite. Don’t tell.” Her conspiratorial whisper is audible to everyone present. Keith throws his head back laughing, and Lance has to remind himself that he’s driving. He never expected such a sound to pass those cherry blossom lips. Keith is dark, wild, cynical. This is pure, fierce, defiant. Lance loves it, loves it too much, too fast, too soon.

Nadia giggles shyly, seemingly delighted that she can produce such a reaction. The girl smiles out the widow the rest of the ride. Keith counts it as a win. So does Lance, who releases his hand from where he’d claimed it on the console to run his long, eternally restless fingers through Keith’s locks.

“You should grow your hair out, mi querido.”

“Yeah, sure. Why not.”

“What, really?” Lance turns to him in surprise, and Keith coaxes the man’s eyes back to the road. Keith often forgets Lance, forgets the man that he is: complete, incomplete.

“It’s not like it costs me anything. If you like it, and you want to keep seeing me-” He acts like it’s not big deal, but the vermillion scorching its way across his cheeks betrays him.

“I do.”

“Then it’s fine. If It’s any shorter than this, it just sticks straight out anyway.” Keith glances over. Lance is smiling as he drives them across the city.

Keith catches the look the children exchange in the backseat as Lance’s wandering fingers find his hand again. It’s more than worth it.

 

“Why is work?” Curtis grumbles as he trips his way back into his bar.

“You own the place!” Shiro laughs. He’s laughed quite a bit today, this week.

“Yes, but sometimes I’d rather just goof off! Especially when I’m not doing it alone.”

Shiro smiles. The fog clouding his mind is steadily thinning. He can see the sea before him, a boat, the sides being stroked by an incoming tide, liquid tendrils teasing, coaxing him into familiar, unfamiliar waters. His chance is coming, is here. He just has to wait for the right moment.

“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” Shiro says, stepping inside. It’s not the right moment; it’s a right moment. It’s complicated. He hears Curtis trip behind him and his smile widens.

“You-You’d want to?” Shiro turns, staring into a pair of wide, ice-blue eyes, gleaming with hope.

“Yeah, I do.” He does. Shiro wants to move on, move forward, find a new person to call home. He wants to call this home. “Why?”

“What’s your favorite color?” They’ve played this game all day, asking random questions. It doesn’t matter if they already know the answer, what matters is hearing the other’s voice, hearing the other explain their inner workings.

“Purple.” Purple is balanced, neutral, hot and cold. It’s safe.

“Grey.” Shiro gives him a funny look, but Curtis doesn’t care. He’s staring into one particular shade of grey, the one he loves the most. “It’s full of secrets. No matter how much you dig, there’s always more to see.”

It’s an odd statement. Shiro pays no mind, instead tearing his eyes away from the other man to set to work before the regulars come in. Kosmo lays down behind the bar, content to rest. Shiro wonders how Keith is doing, if he’s well, if he’s happy.

Heaven knows he deserves it.

“Worrying about Keith again?”

“Always. I’m the only one who ever has, I swear.”

“Oh come on. Someone must’ve cared for you two at some point.” Curtis doesn’t mention the fact that he too cares for Keith. It’s known; it’s forgotten.

“My mother did. For me at least. I never knew my father, but Hana...Hana loved me dearly. She...She used to tell me, ‘You are the only star in my sky.’ It’s the last thing she ever said to me. So yeah...My mother cared. A lot.

“Keith I don’t know about. He doesn’t remember anything before the foster homes. He was abandoned in the street as an infant next to a newspaper stand, so chances are...no. He didn’t.”

“Damn…” Curtis stares at the bottle of vodka in his hand. “I never-What happened?”

“To my mother? Armed robbery. My father? Hana liked to joke that he was…’allergic to responsibility.’ To Keith? Grew up bitter, lost, and unloved, same as all the rest of us. Gimme that.”

Shiro pours some of the strawberry vodka into his mouth. He grimaces. “Watermelon’s better,” Curtis chuckles.

“Then why didn’t you tell me that before I tried the strawberry?”

“Thought you liked that one. I don’t care for it. Think this brand is better,” Curtis says, passing the watermelon vodka. Shiro pours himself a shot this time, pours one for Curtis, downs it, nods.

“Yeah, that’s definitely better.”

Curtis chuckles. “I’ll order more, then.” The Indian man pulls his laptop out from under the bar and sets to work. Shiro takes inventory, opens up the back room to start counting bottles. “Do you need more inventory sheets? I can print some.”

“I’ve got…” Shiro checks his clipboard. “Six more. So soon, but not yet. You’re low on Captain Morgan.”

“Good! It sucks! I can get better for the same price!” Shiro chuckles. “Same with the Bacardi, so let me know as soon as I can order more.”

“You’ve got half a case.”

“Fucking hell. Okay. Let me know when I’m down to three bottles.” Curtis begins typing on his laptop, managing his finances. The man has a Bachelor’s in business management, and it shows. Anish, Shiro suspects, had taught him a lot too. Curtis has a knack for his work. “Can you see if Ryan left his inventory in the kitchen for me?”

“He did. It’s on the door.” Shiro slides the inventory sheet over to Curtis and retrieves the one from the kitchen. He’s learned to treasure this time, the hour or two where he comes in, dusts bottles, checks the equipment, makes sure everything is squared away. He has Curtis to himself, and he’s selfish enough to enjoy that.

“There’s this POS system that does all this shit for you, did you know that? Calculates your inventory as you sell. Blew my father’s mind when I showed it to him. He couldn’t believe it. Used to do this all by hand.”

“Well, that was the only way to do it then. Are you gonna get one of these systems?”

“Nah, I don’t need it. Small business means small tech. That’s the way I want it. That’s the way I like it. That’s the way it shall be.” Shiro laughs, Curtis smiles at his keys. Shiro should laugh more often; he’s missed the sound, heard it plenty today.

“Do you ever think about making it bigger?” Shiro asks.

“No. I mean, I _think_ about it, but I don’t _think_ about it, y’know? Like, I could, hypothetically, but-” The dark-skinned man shrugs. “-I dunno. It just wouldn’t be the same. This place isn’t just work, or business, or my livelihood. It’s part of who I am. It’s home. I used to sit at the corner booth with old Billy while I did my homework. Minerva, a nude model at the local art school, taught me how to waltz in this room. Well, she tried. Broke three bones in this room. Made my first cocktail, had my first drink, lost my virginity in this room. Came out to my dad in this room. Relearned how to love myself in this room. Fell in love in this room. Cried my eyes out in this room. In adding to this...I dunno, it just feels like I’d be taking something away.”

 _Fell in love in this room. Cried my eyes out in this room._ Shiro doesn’t ask. He knows, doesn’t want to be told what Curtis means. There’s something about saying words out loud, something that, once put in the air, given form, makes them so much more powerful. There’s a reason people are afraid to talk to their gods.

Shiro puts a hand on Curtis’ shoulder, thumb turning in a slow, slow circle over and over. “It’s one hell of a room, isn’t it?”

It’s the room where Curtis met Shiro, the room where his life began again for the second time. “It surely is.”

There’s a stretch of heavy silence, then, “Hey, Curtis? Do you have a dollar on you? I need to grab something from the store really fast.”

 

“Tío Lance, ¿qué hacemos aquí?” Sylvio asks.

“We’re here to see a friend of mine.”

“Is Keith coming with us all day?”

“Maybe. Undecided.”

“Why-”

“Enough questions, Sylvio. Just wait and see.” Keith smiles. Sylvio bubbles with excitement, and he can see more than a little of Lance in the boy. Nadia happily clings to Lance’s hand, and Keith sees the little spark of excitement in her cautious steps.

The door to the house in front of them opens and two large, long-legged, curly-haired dogs, one gray, one gold, come charging out into the snow, barking and running around them in circles, curled tails wagging in the air.

“Tío Lance…” Sylvio whispers, suddenly apprehensive.

“Oh dear. Sylvio, you let me know if we need to leave, si?” The boy nods; Lance takes Keith’s hand; Keith blushes. He also wonders that Lance can lie so easily. What lies has he told Keith? Has he lied at all? “¡Vamos, mi querido, mis sobrinos! I wish to introduce you to my dear friend.”

A tall black man with a beard, warm, brown eyes stands in the doorway, waiting for them. “Aurum! Arget! Inside!” 

The dogs bounded back inside, rewarded with a pat on the head from their imposing master. “Hello, I’m Lance McClain. Are you Tavo Olivier? I believe we spoke on the phone a few days ago.”

“I am indeed. Come inside. The little ones are in the living room.” His accent is rich, like honey, like frankincense. 

“Psst.” Keith looks down at Nadia, who’s tugging on his coat sleeve. “¿Eres el novio del tío Lance?”

“Um…” Talking to people is hard for Keith when he can understand their language. Sometimes, he can’t even understand them then. People always mean something different than what they say. The foster system has taught him it’s better to be quiet. He doesn’t need to speak; he has nothing to say, nothing worth hearing.

“Are you tío Lance’s boyfriend? Mamá says tío likes boys sometimes.”

“I-I don’t know.”

Lance elects to address that conversation later. “Thank you very much. Sobrinos, follow Mr. Olivier.”

“Please, Tavo is fine.” Tavo’s smile is like a serpent’s, serene, mysterious, inscrutable.

In the living room, in a small pen, is a litter of six puppies, all with soft curly hair, a designer breed known to be kind to those with allergies, those like Sylvio.

“Tío Lance, podemos acariciar a los perritos?” Nadia whispers. Lance nods, running an indulgent hand through Nadia’s hair. Nadia smiles, cautiously approaching as Tavo opens the pen for her. Sylvio approaches, wiggles his nose, grins, practically launches himself into the pen.

“Tío Lance!” Sylvio yells, never one to use an inside voice. “Tío Lance! No estoy estornudos!”

Lance’s mouth quirks in satisfaction as he observes his nephew gently rough-housing with a puppy. He watches as a small puppy waddles up to Nadia, licking at her hand where she sits on the floor. The girl seems delighted.

“That one is the runt, I’m afraid. She’s healthy enough, but still...a runt. Other dogs may not care for her,” Tavo murmurs.

“Do her siblings like her?” Lance asks, voice quiet.

“A few do. The one your nephew holds does not. Do you intend to purchase one for both of them?”

“I wasn’t, but Nadia doesn’t make a face like that very often.” Keith observes the tenderness curling at the corners of Lance’s eyes, his mouth. His fingers tap out an unheard beat against his leg. He looks powerful, feels powerful, Keith thinks. Lance enjoys using his wealth on those he cares about, those who will love him for it.

Lance catches Keith watching his hands, slips them into his pockets. He hates his hands.

“Then I shall redirect his attention to one of the pup’s more agreeable siblings. Excuse me.” Tavo steps away with a small smile, gently redirecting Sylvio’s focus to one of the nicer puppies, chatting quietly with both children, ensuring that the puppy they are interacting with will suit them.

“He works at a club in the city,” Lance whispers. “I told him if he let them come over I’d get him a date with Allura.”

“He likes Allura?” Keith considers the man’s quiet charisma and gentle charm. He could absolutely see the two together. 

“Does anyone not?” Keith smiles. Not in this way, perhaps, but he likes Allura well enough. He suspects they’ll grow closer as time goes on, if time goes on. “May I ask you something?”

Keith blushes, nods. Lance can ask anything, Keith will answer.

“It’s about what Nadia asked earlier.”

Keith shrugs. “You don’t have to worry. I don’t expect anyth-”

“I was going to ask if that would be alright with you. Being my boyfriend, I mean.”

Keith’s heart freezes in his chest, winter long-since trapped inside his chest hardening sharp, cold. The ice melts at the warm summer smiling down on him. He nods, cautious, color heating his cheeks even in the warm house. “Okay. We can-We can do that. Be that. I guess. No, wait-” 

A fae laugh cuts him off. “Good. This is good.”

It _is_ good. This is good. Lance finds the smile won’t leave his face. Keith has seen his many flaws, seen beyond them. He’s still here. A pale, chilly hand reaches cautiously into his coat, pulls his own wandering hand from the pocket, laces their fingers together; Lance doesn’t want to let go. He’ll have to let go soon. He doesn’t. It's complicated. It’s metaphorical.

Lance takes his sobrinos home before turning right back around to take Keith home. The man offers no protest whatsoever, happy to sit softly in the front seat, stars in his eyes, in his hair, sewn into his skin.

Lance reaches over and prices that man's hands apart where they rest in his lap, laces one with his on the console like before. He almost regrets disturbing the man’s stillness. Keith is always still, waiting, always waiting. Not like a hunter, Lance thinks. Keith waits like a lone wolf, separated from a pack he never had, doesn’t have. His brother has split off, joined a new pack, and Keith is alone in his own mind. He waits to find his pack, waits to defend himself from whatever might come, might take advantage of his solitude. Lance waits to enter his circle, well and truly.

Lance lifts their joined hands, presses them to his lips. “I hope you enjoyed our time today. I know it wasn’t anything special.”

“It was perfect,” Keith whispers. It was; it is. Lance is so persistent in making him feel welcome, feel wanted. Even now, their tethered fingers hold them together. Soon one of them will have to let go.

The car pulls up to the curb, into the nearby garage, into a vacant spot. Keith unlaces their hands. Lance relaces them on the short walk to Keith’s place. The quiet between them is as soft as the snow coming down, as the blush on Keith’s cheeks, as the warmth hovering in the small, shrinking space between them.

“Thank you. For today,” Keith whispers, standing on his own doorstep, shifting on his feet like he himself is the guest. “It was-No one’s ever done any of that for me before.”

“Done what?” Lance asks, confusion in his voice.

“Made me feel like I belonged. Shiro, he doesn’t mind if I feel out of place. He just says it’s okay. But you wanted me to belong. So thanks.”

Lance tucks a finger under the man’s delicate chin. Delicate; Keith is delicate. He’s strong, but brittle, easily broken. Ice has worked its way into all the cracks in his heart, worked its way deep inside, threatened the foundation. What’s left is a tenuous balance between his strength of will and the fragility of his spirit. Lance learned how to tightrope-walk when he was eight, just an inch or two above the ground. Now, he toes the rope at the highest his instructor will allow; he’s an expert on balance. He’s organized chaos. It’s complicated.

Lance inspects the man’s face. There’s a thin, pale scar over the bridge of his nose, much like his brother’s, but barely visible, snow on porcelain, a shooting star falling over the face of the moon. He tucks a lock of raven hair behind his ear, the silken strands slipping over his skin.

“You’ve nothing to thank me for. I have my own selfish motives, I assure you.” Keith laughs, quiet, soft, shy. Lance leans in, kissing him soundly, tasting that sweet smile on his tongue. “For example, your lips…” Lance kisses the man again. “These hips...these hands...this blush…”

“If you want to come in that badly, ask.” Lance grins where he nips lightly at Keith’s neck. Lance loves that quiet sass, the promise that there’s spice in the man before him.

“May I come in?” Keith tilts his head to the side, fumbling with his key behind him, other hand in short brown locks.

“Yeah, if you let me get my key in the door.” Lance laughs, reaching over to do it for him, other hand wandering over Keith’s coat buttons. He’s pleased Keith likes the coat, pleased his boyfriend will be warm. As far as Lance has ever seen, Keith walks home from Garrison’s every night. The weather will get colder before it warms up. Lance will keep him warm.

He steals the key from chilly bare fingers. Christmas is coming soon.

The door opens, Keith pulls Lance inside, pulls him back toward his room, pulls him into his life as surely as Lance pulled him into his.

It’s a complicated thing, being a part of someone’s life. They’ll learn.

 

“So Demitrius and I are walking home, right? He’s drunk, I’m tipsy, and he just stops all of a sudden. Right in a Waffle House parking lot, and starts taking a piss. Well, this cop comes up and he’s like, ‘I’m gonna cut you a break, and _you_ make sure you get this idiot home.’ Seems simple enough, right?

“ _Well,_ we get almost to his house, where we were gonna stay that night. Nice place in the suburbs. Had a pool. Xbox and a PlayStation. Anyway, he stops and takes a piss _again_ in the neighbor’s yard, literally ten feet from his own front door. And I hear someone yell, ‘ _Motherfucker! I trusted you!'_  I turn around and it’s the same fucking cop.

“At this point, I’m practically in tears trying to get this useless moron back to his house and I just yell back, ‘I could say the same fucking thing to this idiot!’ That’s when Demitrius just collapses face first into the grass he just pissed on.

I look at him, and I look at the cop, and I look back at him. Finally I just nudge him with my toe and say, ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’ The cop almost died laughing.”

Shiro’s laughing, that full-bodied laugh he rarely allows himself to feel anymore. It seems blasphemous, undeserved. Here he is, fully enjoying himself, fully in the moment. Most men of God, or indeed any god, seem to think him damned anyway.

“What about you? Got any fun stories?” Curtis refills his glass.

“Not really. Keith doesn’t drink often, but it’s bittersweet when he does.” Shiro takes a sip of the wine in front of them. A couple bought a bottle, but only had a glass each. There’s no sense letting it go to waste.

“How so?” 

“He gets...happy. He smiles, laughs, walks up to people and talks to them. He’ll dance. Sometimes sing. And it’s like...I’m seeing the person he could have been. Should have been? I don’t know. I just...The way he is, I feel like something’s been lost, or made less than it should have been-”

Curtis reaches across the near-infinite inches between them, brushing that metal hand with his fingers. Shiro can almost feel his touch. “Shiro you can’t think like that. That’s saying that Keith is less that he should be. He’s not. He’s a different man than he might have been under other circumstances, but he’s in no way less than he’d be any other way. That’s not right, Shiro. It’s not right to say that.”

Shiro sighs, studies the table, shame and alcohol coloring his cheeks. “I don’t mean that he’s lacking. I’m saying that his life has...reduced his potential. Prevented him from achieving what he should have. He’s always been shy, but he’s never been happy. When…” Shiro hesitates, presses on. “When Adam and I got engaged, he got...brighter? If that makes sense? I think he took it as a sign that he wouldn’t always be unwanted. I told him, and it was like watching a light turn on, like it dawned on him that he was allowed to find happiness. He told me about ten seconds later that he wanted to go back to school. I think he lacks hope.”

Curtis sighs. He still remembers how happy the three of them were. How much of a family they had been at one point in time. “He’ll have that again. Hell, he’s out making that for himself right now, as far as I know. And you’ll have that again too, sooner or later. Life has a funny way of working out.”

Curtis doesn’t assume anything, Shiro knows, though his words sound presumptive. But the warmth in those ice-blue eyes is melting his insides, melting his resolve, and he sees happiness brewing here. He smiles into his wine.

“It does indeed.” Shiro pulls four large lollipops out of his pocket, each about two inches in diameter. “I bought him his school supplies right before his arrest, did you know that? The first time we went to the store, they had these by the register. I saw him eyeing them, trying not to get caught. So I bought him one. 

I still remember how surprised he was. Like he hadn’t expected me, close as we were, to buy him a twenty-five cent lollipop. He still had it on him when he was arrested.”

“Still pisses me off that they actually made him do time for that. He needed therapy, not jail time.” Curtis still remembers what happened. He remembers it was the catalyst for the first argument, the first doubts, the first time Shiro entered his bar without Adam, entered his bar alone.

“We both needed a lot of things we didn’t get. I just learned to let it go. I sometimes wonder if Hana made the difference between the two of us.”

Curtis runs his fingers over the candies, each a different flavor. “For his birthday?”

“Yeah. Just thought I’d let him know that I remember. I remember that he wanted it, and I remember how much it meant to him that he got it. I want him to know that I never forgot that.”

Curtis finds Shiro’s hand again, dares to give it a squeeze, tries to help Shiro hold onto the many hurts he feels for his brother, on his brother’s behalf. “Go home, Shiro. Get some rest. Take Keith that cake and these lollipops, and sleep. Tomorrow will be kinder.”

“Today was kind enough,” Shiro says, rising with a warm smile. “Thanks. And sorry for being a downer.”

“Do I look like I mind?” He doesn’t. Curtis’ pale blue eyes are as warm as ever, smile as friendly as ever. There’s a blush creeping over his nose and cheeks, glowing fiercely even over his dark skin. How much did the other man have to drink? Ironically, Curtis has a low tolerance for alcohol. “Could me a favor before you leave?”

“Of course.” Anything.

“Can you help me up the stairs? I think I’m drunk.” Strong, thick fingers curl around Shiro’s wrist as he laughs. “Don’t laugh at me. How the hell am I gonna get up those stairs? Can’t even get up there sober.”

“I should make you sleep down here,” Shiro teases, even as he attempts to help the uncoordinated man to his feet. He falls, despite Shiro’s best efforts. Shiro nudges the man with his toe. “Now we’re getting somewhere!”

“Fuck you, man.” Shiro helps Curtis up the stairs. “I’m just kidding,” the dark-skinned man mumbles as they reach the landing. Shiro unlocks the door for him. 

“I know you are.”

“No you don’t.” Shiro makes to argue. “I’m kidding. I love you, Shiro. So much.”

“You’re going to regret all of this in the morning,” Shiro murmurs, arm around the man’s waist to help steady him as he walks them to the bedroom. 

“But I do! I’ve loved you for ages!”

“I know,” Shiro whispers, helping the man into his bed, managing to remove his shoes before he curls up on the mattress. Ice blue eyes are large, glassy,w with some strange kind of innocence. “I’ve known for years.”

“Oh. Well, okay then.” Curtis snuggles in as Shiro pulls the blankets over him.

Shiro brushes a lock of dark hair out of the man’s face. He’s not as young as they were upon first meeting. Neither of them are. His prosthetic fingers brush against the other man’s cheek by accident. It’s an imprecise instrument, a false piece of himself, a silent reminder to never take for granted, always appreciate what he has while he still has it. He left a piece of himself behind when Spring ended.

“Your prosthetic’s cool. Thought you were gonna die, you know. Keith said you were too stubborn, though. I like Keith. He’s a sweetheart.”

“Goodnight, Curtis. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You could stay?” The man whispers, lying alone in his large bed. 

Shiro brushes the man’s hair with more care, more intention. He wants to stay; a part of him wants to stay. All of the other parts are afraid, ashamed. “Not this time. Some other time, okay?”

“M’kay.” The man obediently closes his eyes, falls asleep, and Shiro is alone. It’s not so terrible, really. He doesn’t feel alone. Not at all. He feels welcomed, he feels loved. Shiro walks home, alone but not alone,  a birthday cake in his arms, lollipops in his pocket.

When he arrives home, he’s tempted to stay up until Keith wakes for work. A quiet peek into his brother’s room changes his mind. Keith is not alone tonight. Lance is with him, their arms and legs tangled together. Shiro can hear their breathing in unison, one inhalation, one exhalation, the overture to devotion.

Shiro smiles, despite the sudden loneliness creeping into his heart. He doesn’t have to be lonely any more than he has to be alone. But something about the depth of Keith’s sleep, the peace on the bit of his face not buried in Lance’s chest makes his smile widen. 

It’s Keith’s turn, Shiro decides, to supply the hope.

But Shiro will supply what warmth he can, so he leaves the chocolate cake and the lollipops on the flimsy card table in the kitchen, waiting to be found in the morning.

Keith can supply the hope, Shiro can supply the warmth, and morning can supply a sunrise.


	6. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready? Am I ready? Are we ready?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Questions? Comments? Concerns? I'd love to hear about it! Leave a message down below! <3<3<3

When Keith wakes up Monday morning, doesn’t want to leave his bed. He’s warm, safe, comfortable. Lance smells like summer at midmorning, feels like sunlight sinking into his skin. Lance stirs, sighs, disturbed by Keith’s alarm.

“Do you have to go?”

“Yeah.”

“Right now?”

“Pay’s not salary,” Keith grunts. “Done by the clock.” Lance sighs, lets him go, pulls summer away again. “Still tired from flying?”

“Mmm. Can I stay here?” Keith extricates himself from the blankets, dresses, grabs his phone, turns to Lance. The man has his face buried in the pillows, so Keith kisses his temple instead.

“As long as you like. We can get you a key, if you want.” There’s a flash of brilliant blue, followed by a bright, brief smile. Keith will get Lance a key. He’ll do anything to see that smile again. He won’t be able to do anything at if he loses his job.

In the tiny kitchen, he isn’t expecting to find a chocolate cake and four lollipops. He’s not sure what to do, what to say, how to react. He just stares, letting time pass him by. Shiro stirs on the couch behind him. “Hey.”

“What’s this?” Keith is tired. He wishes he were back in bed with Lance. He’s cold.

“Happy birthday.” Keith frowns with confusion. “I missed it, back in October. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Keith had forgotten too. He’s twenty-five now, not twenty-four. It’s late to remember. Twenty-five, life a quarter over, and what has he done, accomplished, achieved? Nothing, there’s nothing as far as he can see. He shrugs. “I forgot too. Don’t worry about it.”

“Keith-”

“I know. I just…” Keith sighs. He doesn’t really understand why Shiro cares. His birthday doesn’t matter to him. It’s likely not even his birthday. The people who found him just assigned him a random date. It’s not his; he doesn’t have one. It’s one of the many, many things that keep him apart from everyone else.

“Keith, do you know why people celebrate birthdays?”

“Because you didn’t die between this one and the last one?” Keith has no idea.

Shiro comes over and puts his hands on Keith’s shoulders. “No, Keith. We celebrate birthdays to show we’re happy you’re still here, that we’re happy you were born. So eat your cake and shove it.”

Keith smiles, the curling of his lips coming easier than in days past. “Not about to say no to food I didn’t have to make.”

Keith cuts himself a slice of cake, sits carefully in the flimsy plastic chair at the flimsy vinyl card table. He picks up one of the lollipops. “Shiro...Is this...Are these-”

“Yeah. I just...I don’t know. I remembered that one I bought you before-”

“I never got around to eating it. They took it away.” Shiro sits down at the table, Keith smiles at the candy, slips one into his uniform pocket. “Thank you, Shiro.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember. It’s been a while.” Shiro passes him a fork, gives him a kiss on the head, like when they were children. Shiro’s always been one for touch, the one who taught Keith to accept affection from others. With no one but Keith -aloof, shy, cautious- for company, the man must be starved for it. It breaks Keith’s heart to see him so alone. It’s up to Shiro if he remains alone. “Eat and get going. You don’t want to be late.”

“Right. When Lance wakes up, please get him something he can eat. I don’t have anything here. Let him pay for it if he wants. I think it makes him happy.”

“We’ve got-”

“No gluten. I’m trusting you not to chase him off, Shiro.” Keith phrases it harshly, but there’s a plea lying just beneath his words, poking holes in his armored defence.

“Don’t think I could if I tried.” Shiro ruffles Keith’s hair, like he used to do when they were young, when play was a more feasible option. “Trust me. He’s fixated on you.”

Keith isn’t sure he likes the way Shiro says that,  doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He’ll be late if he doesn’t leave. He rises, dons his shoes, jacket. He doesn’t want to risk dirtying the coat Lance lent to him. Shiro hugs him on his way out. “Happy birthday, little brother. Glad you’re still here.”

“Yeah, me too. Get some sleep.”

“I can sleep when I die.”

“Whatever you say.”

Shiro goes back to sleep after Keith leaves, slipping back into his light slumber the way Lance slips between Spanish and English. Keith heads to The Coranic, one of the large lollipops, mango-flavored, sitting heavy in his pocket. He intends to eat it. He does; he doubts he will. It’s complicated.

He arrives at The Coranic ten minutes later, where he’s greeted by the owner. Coran is an older man, red hair struck through with gray, brown eyes warm, inviting. He’s a kind man, generous, considerate, understanding, content in his simple, peaceful, uncomplicated life. He wears a set of gold bands on a chain around his neck. Sometimes, his eyes grow sad, look far away, ahead, behind, inside, and his strong, aging fingers find the set of rings. Keith has never asked. He always worries he’ll hurt the man.

“Ah, Keith! You’re not fifteen minutes early today! May I inquire as to the occasion? Are you alright?” Coran is a bit much for Keith, always loud, the high pitch to his voice grating on his nerves. The words itch, sting under the skin between his shoulder blades. The man knows this, tries to temper his tone, but often forgets. Keith doesn’t take it personally. He’s touched that the man cares enough to try.

“Sorry. I…” Keith blushes, flesh betraying him mercilessly.

“Ah, had someone with you, did you?” Keith studies his work boots. The leather is peeling away from the steel. The boots had been a gift from Adam when Keith had enrolled in trade school. Even if he could afford a new pair, Keith hasn’t the heart to get rid of them. “Well, what’s his name?”

Keith has never told Coran, or anyone else save Shiro that he’s gay; He’s not surprised Coran knows. Coran seems to know everything. “Lance. He...He’s my boyfriend.”

“Ah! That’s wonderful! What’s he like?”

“Oh. Um. He-he talks a lot. And...he has a lot of family? He’s really nice.”

“Interesting...Say, Keith. This boyfriend of yours wouldn’t happen to be Lance _McClain_ now would it?” So he _was_ that Coran. Keith nodded. “Well, that explains why Acxa has decided she needs a tune-up. How are you doing with him? He needs an extra hand much of the time. More than he likes to admit.”

“I’m...I think we’re doing okay. I know he struggles sometimes...” Keith toes a dark spot on the floor. “I haven’t had to help him a whole lot, but we haven’t done much…”

“Not domestic, yet? I see. Well, you’ll take good care of him for me, won’t you? He and my daughter are quite close. He’s a good lad, even if he’s difficult sometimes.”

“He seems...distracted? Sometimes?” Keith doesn’t know how to explain.

“Yes, he can be. He...Well, I tell you this in confidence, you understand. He’s not independent. His memory and attention problems alone keep that from being a possibility. I want you to keep that in mind.” Keith swallows, understanding too well what Coran means. Lance is not a small commitment. It’s terrifying to consider that someone might become dependent upon him. He’s not used to people offering him that level of trust.

“I know. I’ve known him a long time.” Coran isn’t very hard to talk to. He’s become something of an authority figure for Keith, taking time out to teach him new things, offer advice, ask after Shiro. “Acxa. She’s…”

“Veronica’s fiancee. She’s going to try to scare you, but she’s a good girl. She’s Veronica’s ‘bad girl.’” Keith bites his lip, laughing through his nose. “I’m pretty sure Veronica asked her out during a rebellious phase and it ended up paying off.” Keith allows himself a genuine laugh, quiet, short. “That’s the spirit,” Coran smiles. Keith has held a special place in Coran’s heart since the shy man’s mumbling, blushing interview three years ago.

“Coran. I do have places to be. I have a job.” Acxa is of average height, muscular, wirey. She has short, dark blue hair, cut close to her head on one side, black nails, piercings in her ears, her eyebrow, her nose. Her lipstick matches her hair; her clothes match her lipstick. Coran’s theory, Keith suspects, is exactly right. The modest ring glitters on her finger. It matches Veronica’s. “Run along.”

“Good luck, son.” Keith nods, glances to Acxa, grabs her keys from the desk, pulls her car into the garage. No one is here yet. He might as well get started.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Acxa asks as Keith pops the hood on her nondescript sedan. Everything is perfect. She’s wasting his time, more than anything else. He doesn’t mind. The rush is coming, so he’ll take the reprieve.

“You want to threaten me. I was told to expect you.” Keith sighs. “Is there anything that actually needs doing here?”

“You could rotate my tires if you want, but nothing, really.” Keith sighs again, closes the hood, manages to meet the gaze of his inquisitor. “I’m not here to tell you what you already know about Lance. I’m here to tell you about me. And you.”

Keith says nothing, watching a pair of cobalt eyes search him, peer into every available crack and crevice, take him apart, inspect each piece, put him back together. He’s not good enough. There are pieces broken, pieces bent out of shape, pieces that are missing altogether.

“Until recently, I worked for a private company that rented out muscle. I was the muscle. Currently, I’m a private investigator. One of the best. Do you understand what I mean?”

Keith understands. He doesn’t respond. It makes no difference if he does.

“You’ll follow me around and try to find dirt on me,” he whispers, cold creeping slow, biting in his veins. There’s plenty of dirt, if one knows where to dig; Acxa knows where to dig.

“I don’t need to follow you around to find all your secrets, Keith Kogane. I already know them. I know you’re twenty-five. I know your mother was Korean. Your father, American. I know you were born on a Korean Army base. You were abandoned in America as an infant not long after your father was dishonorably discharged. Not even the system ever knew that. But you do.

“I know you went to jail when you were sixteen for putting a man in the hospital-”

“That wasn’t my fault-”

“Does it matter?” Acxa asks, voice quiet, hardly more than a whisper. “Do you think he’ll care? That his father, his family will care? You, your assailant, and I all what happened, but as far as everyone else is concerned, you attacked that man in an alley in the pitch black of crack town. You have a mean streak, Keith Kogane. And you don’t want them to know that. Trust me. You know how protective they are.” The woman steps forward, looming into Keith’s personal space. She reaches into the pocket of his jumpsuit, removes her keys. “So be good to him, and we’ll keep this between us. You have my word. It was lovely to meet you, but I need to catch a married man hiring a pregnant dominatrix. Excuse me.”

Keith tip-toes out of her way, lets her drive herself out. He swallows, hands shaking, skin pale, breath shuttering in his chest. 

It isn’t fair. It wasn’t his fault. He can still hear his own screams, hoarse, terrified, still feel the bricks, damp, cold, at his back, then again against his face, feel the brutal hands grabbing at him. He can feel the breath catching in his lungs, his heart pounding in his chest, his assailant’s bones breaking against his fist. He can still smell the fear, the blood. He doesn’t remember if it was his own.

The salty, sweet tang is still in his mouth when he heads back to his place to shower hours later. The winter’s bitter cold clings to his skin.

 

Lance comes stumbling out of Keith’s bedroom at a perfectly reasonable eight a.m. It’s perfectly reasonable, despite Shiro’s glare when the silver-haired man wakes from what must have been a sweet slumber.

“Keith told me to take you somewhere for breakfast. Unless you want to eat just a lime or some frozen peas. Everything else has gluten in it.”

“Something more substantial is probably in order. Keith eats like a bird. I wonder how he can live off of so little.” Shiro rises. “I’ll pay. Would you accompany me? My track record walking the city by myself is not great.” Lance shakes out his wild, cowlicked hair. “I’ll definitely get hit by a bus or get lost.”

Shiro's not sure about the bus, but he absolutely believes Lance will get lost. Lance will get lost; Shiro will never find him again; Keith will be heartbroken; Lance’s family will hire an assassin to kill him.

“Grab your coat. You’re buying me breakfast. And I will make sure we find our way home.”

Lance beams, delighted that he’s getting his way. “Thank you, Shiro. I really appreciate your help. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

“You’re making it up to me by buying me breakfast,” Shiro says, donning yesterday’s colthes. “Sorry if I’m not up to snuff. I’ve had like, five hours of sleep and my sleep schedule is f-” Shiro’s phone buzzes on the floor next to the couch. He answers.

“I’m dying. Please help.” It’s Curtis. “Dude, why did you let me drink last night? That was like... _three glasses_ of wine. And some vodka before that, but I don’t think you knew.” Lance taps Shiro on his flesh arm.

“I’ll buy you lunch later if you tell him there’s no need to _whine_ about it.” Shrios grins.

“Well, there’s no need to _whine_ about it, Curtis.” Lance gives him a high five.

“Oh, fuck you, man. Fuck you.” A pause. “Hey...So, all the weird, stupid shit I think I said last night...Did I actually say all of that? Please tell me I didn’t say all of that.”

“You didn’t say all of that.”

“Oh _gods_ . I _did._ ”

Shiro chuckles, heart warm. He likes seeing this side of people, the real side of people, the regretful, hungover side of people. “I’ll see you in a bit. We’ll bring some food, okay?”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.” 

“Okay. I’m gonna go throw up now.” Shiro bites his lip to keep from laughing, and Lance is covering his mouth with his hand. Lance’s eyes shine, spirited, playful, everything Keith likes, needs.

“Okay. See you soon.” Shiro hangs up just before Lance bursts out laughing, doubled over, grinning from ear to slightly-too-large ear. It’s a pure sound, full of nothing but good humor, nothing at all at Curtis’ expense. Shiro appreciates that. He wonders if the man has a mean bone in his body. “So where do you wanna go for breakfast?”

“Umm...I don’t know. I’m not sure where it’s safe for me to eat.”

“I know a place that makes good, cheap omelettes. Their menu has a lot of those little gluten free symbols on it.”

“That sounds perfect.” Places that have lots of gluten free options have less chance of too much cross-contamination. A trace amount is fine, for now. Sooner or later, even that will probably be too much, but Lance is young, is not about to live his life in fear of an autoimmune disorder. He has too many other disorders to worry about. “We can get some food for your idiot too.” 

Lance grins, giving Shiro the sneaking suspicion that the man has referenced something Shiro doesn’t understand. Sometimes, he has trouble remembering that Lance is an adult. He just forgets. Lance’s age shifts like the tide, yet far less predictable. Lance has a precocious, childlike wonder about him, has smiles, laughter already growing in at the corners of his eyes. Lance isn’t old, not in the least, but he’s counted out his life in joys. It’s enviable.

Lance texts Keith to tell him where he is. He texts his father and sister, too, apologizes for forgetting to let them know last night. He’s always forgetting things-

“Watch out!” Shiro yanks Lance back, out of the path of an oncoming car. Maybe the bus _was_ more likely. “Lance, can you please _try_ to pay attention?” Lance is wounded, but sees the stress in the man’s eyes, nods, tries to hide the hurt. It must not work, as Shiro puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know it’s hard, but at least put your phone away until we get there, alright? I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“No...It’s-Don’t apologize. You’re right. I know better than to use my phone while walking. Or do anything else while walking. It is dangerous.”

“Honestly no one should,” Shiro says, watching the foot traffic. He’s being overprotective now. He can’t help it. “Nobody pays enough attention to what they’re doing on the streets.”

“I can barely pay attention sitting down. Driving is stressful, but it’s something I insist on doing for myself. My gps talks to me, and having some kind of background noise is very helpful. Still, I don’t drive unless I have to go somewhere. I like podcasts. There’s one about murders and ghosts that works well-” Lance breaks off, seeing the bemused look on Shiro’s face. “What?”

“Have you actually been diagnosed with anything? Or are you just working it out on your own?” This is the moment Lance decides he truly likes Shiro. The man knows he’s willing to talk, doesn’t care to treat him like he’s fragile, like he can’t handle his own truths.

“Several things. Pull an attention-related disorder out of a hat and I’ve probably been diagnosed with it at least once. At the end of the day, I don’t know or remember what exactly they decided on. I think it was more than one thing…

“It doesn’t matter, you see. Because regardless of a series of letters and what they stand for, the end result is the same…” Lance sighs, prepares, utters a confession. “I don’t know how to explain it to Keith. I’ve skirted around it, but I don’t know how or when to tell him that a life with me is one where I depend on him to help me get through the day. Or I suppose I could hire an attendant or something but I want at least an _illusion_ of autonomy. And Keith is so busy. I don’t know how I can ask him to help me get out of the house on time or cross the street without dying or read my emails for me-”

“You _so_ didn’t talk about any of this with Nyma, did you?” Shiro asks, guiding Lance into the small restaurant. It’s the peak of the breakfast rush, the line is long, Lance will talk from one end to the other given minimal encouragement. He prays Shiro doesn’t mind.

“No, I did not. I don’t think it would have helped. Though, she may have ended it herself much earlier. And perhaps not have decided to flaunt her infidelity before doing so.” Lance is surprised by the bitterness in his voice, the acerbic taste on his tongue. “At least I tried, you know? I didn’t succeed by any stretch of the imagination, but I did try.”

“Nobody’s perfect. I suggest you lay things out for Keith now, as opposed to later. It’s not good for either of you if you carry on like this. I can’t speak for him, but he might not mind.”

“Right.” Lance isn’t convinced. Sometimes, his own family gets frustrated with him. Experience suggests that Lance is good for a night, little more than that. Setting Nyma aside, Keith is the outlier, the only one who lasted a night, the only one who asked for more.

“Do you want a suggestion?” Shiro offers as they approach the counter. Lance nods, eyes wide, desperate. He needs guidance, doesn’t know how to ask for it.

“You say you need help reading emails? Hi, Three...er...southwest omelettes to go, please. Three coffees. Three fresh fruit-”

“All with bacon, please.” Lance interjects. “And homefries, if you would.” He offers her his card. The woman slides her gaze between the two, purses her lips, slides his card, lays it on the counter instead of his outstretched hand. Lance’s jaw tightens. “Thank you.”

Shiro puts a hand on the younger man’s far shoulder, guides him toward the high bar where their food will be delivered. “Now, you said you have trouble reading? Or at least implied it?”

“Yeah, it’s a processing issue. Same with my short-term memory. I really need to get on a schedule, but my work doesn’t currently allow it and...I don’t want to trouble my father with it. He’s done enough for me already.”

Shiro regards the man before him. Lance strikes him as a man who desperately wants to make it on his own, knows he can’t, tries his damnedest. There’s something deeply tragic, deeply honorable in his futile effort. “Ask Keith for help next time you need it. See what he says. How he reacts. I honestly have no idea what he’ll do, so I can’t help you there, but that’s the best way to see without scaring him. He’s never taken care of anyone before. Well, before me.”

Their food arrives, Shiro making the decision to check it, given their cashier’s earlier behavior. It’s fine. “We’d better go before it gets cold.”

Curtis is awkward, quiet while he stares at the breakfast. As Shiro had suspected, the man has regrets. Shiro does his utmost to hide his disappointment. He’s determined to feel what he feels. It’s been too long.

All the while, Lance chatters away, hands dancing through the air, tapping out some increasingly familiar beat against the counter. 

 

Keith has a lot to think about. He is thinking about it, about the risks he’s taking, the risks he’s about to take, the risks he doesn’t want to take at all. He thinks, dwells, obsesses, worries over the many risks involved all through his work, his walk home, his climb up the stairs. 

He’s resolved. 

If he confesses now, Acxa can’t use it against him later. She can’t use it against Lance. Lance is really the only McClain he cares about. He’s terrified of losing him; he never had him to begin with. Not if this snaps the fragile silk-thread stitching holding them together.

Inside, he’s a touch surprised to find that Lance is still here; he’s still in Keith’s home; he’s still in Keith’s life. He’s also concerned.

Lance has his head down on the table, fingers balled, still, unmoving in his hair. Frustration hangs over him like summer clouds that just won’t break, heavy, dark, looming overhead.

“Lance?” Lance doesn’t move. It’s not right; it’s downright unnatural, seeing the man so still. “Lance are you alright?”

Keith cautiously puts a hand on Lance’s back, they way Shiro used to do when Adam was struggling. He’s not certain what he’s doing, but he tries. “Can-Can I help?”

A turn of the head, a flash of bright blue, a weary sigh rewards Keith for his tiny, tremendous effort. “Would you mind?”

It’s vicious timing, Lance thinks, considering the fears of the morning, the fears of the past week, fears of every day wondering what this could become. Those cool hands gently remove Lance’s own from his hair as that slow heat hovers right next to him. “Of course not. I-I’m supposed to, right? B-Because...you’re my boyfriend, right?”

He doesn’t want to ask, still. He’s been staring at the short paragraph for an hour. It’s all just letters to him. Phonemes, morphemes, shapes blend together without any sense of purpose aside from making his knee bounce, his head ache, his frustration spike.

Keith clearly isn’t at all sure of himself; neither of them are sure of themselves. Lance suspects the man needs guidance, doesn’t know how a relationship works. Really, neither does Lance, even as he offers up some idea his mother may have, may not have told his a long time ago. “You’re not _supposed to_. But...I’d like you to, if you could? If you wouldn’t mind?” Lance sighs, bites one of his many bullets. “Could you read something for me?”

“Read something for you?” Keith’s dark eyes are large, bright, not understanding.

“Um. I can-I can read, of course. It’s just…I can’t process it properly. I read the words, but I can’t string them together. They’re just words to me. So please?” Lance slides his phone over to Keith, who picks it up without hesitation.

“‘Mr. McClain. We regret to inform you that due to recent events, we have elected to terminate Hoshikugi Ritsu’s employment. A new manager will be appointed presently, one whom we believe is capable of what we both require. If you have any concerns, you know what to do.’ There’s no signature. Is there anything else?” Lance shakes his head. Keith carefully sets down the phone, waits, silent, alone.

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Keith mumbles, confused. Lance can’t understand when he reads. Keith doesn’t really feel like this is a big deal. Iverson used to tell him, when he was more freshly damaged, traumatized, that “everyone’s got their thing,” that it’s okay; it doesn’t mean anything; he has to keep going forward because the world never stops moving. Keith moves forward, tries to keep up. “Anytime. I don’t mind.”

“Are you sure?” The dark uncertainty clouding the blue sky makes Keith ache in a way he doesn’t quite understand, chooses not to dwell on.

“Yes.” Keith shifts, wrapping his arms around himself, bracing himself, trying to hold all of his most vulnerable pieces together so that Lance might see them clearly, might not break them all into even smaller pieces. He’d made a decision -somewhere between the woman with the aggressive haircut who believed oil changes would make her kids sick and the couple who didn’t tip him because their food took too long- to tell Lance what happened nine years ago, yesterday, this morning. “Lance? There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Okay?” It’s cautious, tentative, bracing.

“So...It’s the kind of thing I’d want you to hear from me, before anything else, but there are parts I don’t want to talk about, so…” Keith swallows, clears his throat. Lance takes his hands, squeezing lightly. “I don’t know if you remember, but um, that first night? I mentioned I’ve done time.”

“Ah, yes, you did. I’m sorry. I’d forgotten. Why? What about it?”

It happens all at once, the flood of panic rushing like ice through Keith’s blood. His frame trembles as the ice travels through his extremities. Words tumble from his mouth like little snowflakes caught in a storm.

“Acxa. She knows. She knows what I did. She knows what happened. She knows the truth-” Keith’s breathing, his words begin to come faster, Lance gets to his feet, fingers running through Keith’s hair, large, brown hands cradling his face. He’s alarmed, at the sudden, fearful energy pouring from Keith’s every crevice.

“Woah, hey, hey. It’s alright, mi querido. It’s alright. It’s all in the past.” Lance lifts Keith’s pale face, haunted, hunted eyes, presses a kiss the the crumpled forehead. “Are you alright?”

“I hurt someone. Bad. I was scared. I didn’t know what else to do, I-just-wanted-to-get-away-”

“Mi querido, I don’t believe for one instant that you would hurt me or anyone dear to me.” Lance kisses him lightly, trying to part the clouds in Keith’s midnight eyes. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

“I don’t?” Keith trembles in Lance’s hands as they slip along his frame. Lance buries his alarm under his concern. He knows it won’t work, he won’t actually succeed. He tries.

“Or course not, mi querido. You’re upset, which is the opposite of what I want for you. Please don’t force yourself.”

Lance’s lips find the corner of his jaw, plucking lightly at delicate porcelain. He nuzzles at Keith’s delicate skin, kissing his way to Keith’s cheek. Lance can tell that Keith is distressed, already tired from a single day of thankless work. Lance finds his lips, kisses him chastely.

Keith swallows, tentatively leans in a little closer, Lance wraps him up in his arms, takes advantage of that extra few inches to accommodate his boyfriend’s melting posture, tucks him beneath his chin. “It’s alright, mi querido. We’re alright. It’s alright.”

Keith closes his eyes, inhales the scent of sunlight, of summer rains. Only Shiro’s ever embraced him. This feels different; it’s a different breed of kindness, of comfort, of understanding. His arms find Lance’s waist. “I’ll tell you. Someday. I-I will. I swear I will.”

“I know you will, but not tonight.” Lance pulls back, lightly brushes against cherry blossom lips. “You’re upset, and very tired. Can I stay with you tonight?” Keith nods. “Wonderful! I do need to go home at some point for clean clothes, but that can be Tomorrow Lance’s problem.”

Keith laughs, pulls away, takes Lance’s hands as they wander, unbidden, lets the thumbs run over his skin. Keith lets it happen, doesn’t seem bothered. The gratitude in those eyes shines like light captured in a dark prism.

“Of course, mi querido. Muchas gracias, Keith. Thank you for reading to me.”

“Like I said, anytime.”

“Wait, you actually meant that?” Lance asks, as Keith takes his first weary steps toward his bed, where he desperately wants to be.

“I…” Keith blushes, embarrassed by his outburst, uncertain of his words. “I’d be happy to help you, Lance. Whatever I can do to help you, I want to.”

“Oh. I-I never expected that, you know. I’ve put off hiring someone for that for long enough and-”

Keith pulls off his shirt and pants. “Is that what you want?”

“No…”

“Then don’t do it. I know I’m not around too much, but I can try.” 

Lance snorts, grins. The simplicity with which Keith seems to approach life enchants him. He makes a decision, carries it out. Granted, his decision to confess his troubled past didn’t end well. Lance chooses to look past it. He’ll talk to Keith about taking better care of his body and mind when said body and mind aren’t visibly aching with tiredness.

 

By Wednesday, Keith has stopped expecting Lance to ask about his past. Instead, Lance asks for help. He needs lots of help: help finding his shoes, phone, wallet, keys, help getting dressed, getting out the door, getting in his car in a timely manner, help taking less than an hour in the shower.

It troubles Keith more and more each day, going back and forth between his shabby apartment and the estate, watching him struggle, worrying every minute of his day. Did Lance make it to that meeting on time? Did he remember to eat breakfast, brush his teeth? Did he find his lanyard?

Iverson sees the weight on his mind. “You okay, kid?”

Somewhere in the last few weeks, Keith earned Iverson’s respect. Keith’s unsure how, but at some arbitrary, predestined moment, Iverson chose to take a new interest in him, in his life. “Fine.”

Iverson sighs. Keith has never been open. When he’d hired the boy, shellshocked, damaged, utterly lost at sixteen, he’d thought he could help him. He’d given up quickly, finding him aloof, disinterested in the lives of others, too far gone to be salvaged from his own wreckage. Iverson had kept him around out of a sense of responsibility, the off chance something in him might shift.

It had shifted, a short while ago. A window had opened, let in fresh air, breathed life into the man that had once been a boy. What had been chilled distance became some skittish fear, the aloof indifference an intense shyness that crept along the shadows and walls when it could. All of this meant that, though belated, overdue, Keith Kogane, once sixteen now twenty-five, had finally become something that Iverson thought he could help.

“No, you’re not.” Keith sighs, goes back to clearing the last of the tables. “Problem with that boyfriend of yours?”

Keith stacks the plates in the basin, wipes down the table with care. He takes pride in his work, even if he hates it. He summons his courage, finds the energy to speak. “Sort of.”

“Let me guess. You’re finally starting to realize just how loopy the guy is.” Iverson is never gentle, but he seems less gruff than usual. There’s a new edge of pity that Keith hates even more. He blushes, scowls, doesn’t speak. He hates that Iverson is right. Iverson sighs.

“Kid, have you ever had a boyfriend? Or girlfriend? Or...whatever the hell else there is for your generation?” Keith shakes his head. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but boyfriend, girlfriend, whatever, it’s work. You think Marcia is all sunshine and daisies? Hell no.” Marcia is Iverson’s wife. She’s deaf, which is fortunate, in Keith’s opinion. Iverson’s entire person grates against Keith like sandpaper, his voice being the worst offender. 

He’s the wrong kind of big, in Keith’s mind. He’s the kind of big that forces everyone else out of the way. Lance is different. Lance is the kind of big that wraps itself around those close to him, invites them to join him on the everyday adventure of being himself.

Iverson takes a seat, gestures for Keith to sit across from him. Keith complies, almost curious, unsure if he has room to refuse. “You remember I told you everybody’s got their thing?” Keith nods, studying his hands folded in his lap. He wishes Iverson wouldn’t look at him so hard. “Marcia’s thing is loneliness. It’s loney, kid, being deaf. There are so few people she can talk to. A lot of days, I’m her only friend. At least face to face. And it breaks my heart to see her alone. But I do everything I can to make her life as happy as possible, even if it hurts. 

“And it’s gonna hurt sometimes, kid, being with someone who needs more care than you or I do. It’ll break your heart over and over, watching someone you love with every piece of yourself struggle and hurt and know there’s nothing you or anyone else can do to fix it. But you can make a difference. A big one. It’s why Marcia still smiles when I get home, why she sits up waiting to tell me all about her day. You just gotta decide if you’re the right person for the job.”

Keith sits back in his chair, still staring at his hands. He taps his fingers, trying to find Lance’s tempo. He can’t find it. Iverson is waiting, waiting for him. “I don’t know if I’m the right person. Even if I were, I can’t help him. I’m not there when he really needs me.” Keith sighs, seeing the problem looming before him, the problem he can’t go around, can’t go under, can’t go over, can’t go through. It’s the problem he picks away at every waking minute of every day, never getting anywhere. “I’m always working and when I’m not working, I’m tired...I don’t have the time or energy to give him what he needs.”

“Well, what are you willing to do? What are you willing to give up in order to meet those needs? What risks are you willing to take?”

“I can’t afford-”

“I offered you a full-time job. With salary. You’d make _at least_ as much as you are now, if not more. Just as late, you come in earlier, but you’re not juggling two jobs. If you need to take a few hours or a day here and there, fine. I get it, even more than most. But are you willing to risk it on the chance that this is going to last?”

Keith shifts in his seat. “I went to school to be a mechanic. I went into debt for that.”

“I’m aware. I remember you practicing on my broken refrigerator. I went to school to be a chemical engineer. Now I own a restaurant. Big fucking deal. You think everyone ends up doing what they went to school for? Hell no.”

Images of Lance invade Keith’s mind as he heaves his gaze up to meet Iverson’s. “Can I think about it or do I have to decide right now?”

“Waiting for a sign?” Keith blushes, nods. He’s not quite ready to risk his livelihood on the off chance that his relationship with Lance will be long-term. “Sure, kid. Just let me know by Christmas. Now get some food and get the hell outta here. Go home. I’ll clock you out when I leave.”

Keith nods again, leaving Iverson behind at the table. Iverson sighs, shakes his head. Keith is still as self-isolating as he was when he was younger, afraid to accept help, afraid to show weakness. Life has not been kind.

One meal later, and Keith is outside. Lance is nowhere to be seen. He’s supposed to be here. He said he’d be here.

He attempts to call, to no avail. Lance’s phone is dead; he must have forgotten to charge it.

Keith considers waiting, but it’s Wednesday; he’s exhausted; his body is sore; he just wants to sleep...He starts walking. It’s not far, really. He’s walked this path hundreds, if not thousands of times before. He’s only disappointed because Lance said he’d be there. Where is he? Where is he?

Where is he?

A flash of white flickers at the edge of Keith’s vision, pulling him briefly from his own skin and into the shadows. It’s nothing, a bit of clean snow, a new trash can lid, perhaps a cat, he assumes, picks up his courage, walks on.

There’s that nagging tug again, the one that had been dredged up Monday morning by a woman paid to mind other peoples’ business. It’s a reminder that safety is an illusion.

He’s almost home when it happens again, a shade of white that does not belong. This time, Keith almost doesn’t react, almost, muscles tensing for half a second before he relaxes most of his sinew. Someone is there. Keith _knows_ that someone is there. He doesn’t want to find out who. He picks up his pace.

Snow is coming down yet again, sticking to his coat, to the sidewalk. He’s alone; no one is near. He left the city proper two blocks ago and the street is abandoned. Another flash of white, more silver, a tensing of muscles, a reach for the knife he’s kept with him since the night his tenuous grip on a future was broken.

_Not again. Please not again. Not again not again notagainnotagain-_

Tires crunch over rock salt, lights flare over the snow clinging to the sidewalk, a familiar car pulls up to the curb. Relief floods his body, the promise of warmth thawing the icey terror in his bones; he doesn’t move.

Keith doesn’t want to go around. Someone is _there_ , in the shadows, watching him, waiting for him, wanting to hurt him. The car is in the way. Keith is safe. Nothing can hurt him now.

“Keith?” Lance leans out the window. “Keith, are you okay? I’m sorry I’m late.” Lance _is_ sorry, disheartened, discouraged. Keith shakes himself, scurries around the car, throws himself into the passenger seat. He’s shivering, not from the cold.

Lance pulls back onto the street, not asking if his boyfriend is ready. He reaches over for Keith’s hand, only for it to curl more tightly into its match with a vulnerable, trembling sound. Keith makes himself small in his seat, as small as his fixed volume allows, shrinking down into his coat. His head tips forward, locks of void-black hair slipping in front of his face like a curtain, sheltering him from Lance’s gaze. Before Lance’s eyes, Keith becomes a tiny, insignificant, fragile vessel. Lance wonders if his mind is deep inside the vessel, if the vessel is empty, if Keith has flown off, escaped for a moment.

When Lance pulls into the parking garage, Keith is still hiding. Lance is scared, his fingers tapping out a self-soothing beat against the steering wheel. He comes around, opens the door, kneels down, suit stained in an instant as it touches the filth of the garage floor.

He waits. The cold picks away at him. He waits. Keith trembles. He waits. Lance has never been good at waiting, at being still. For Keith, he’ll do it. He can. 

Lance puts all of his effort into being still, into waiting. It’s not easy, eventually pulling him out of his space. He dissociates, eyes fogging, breathing shifting, awareness fading to the edge of consciousness. After a brief eternity, Keith turns his head, eyes wide, red-rimmed beneath his hair. Lance blinks, pulls himself back to this plane.

“What happened, querido? ¿Estás bien? ¿Estás herido?” The alarm in his voice is palpable. Lance never could figure out how to hide his feelings.

Keith slowly unwinds his hands, feels a warm set of fingers curl gently around his own, slowly tightening against the urge to dance. He’s grateful for the pressure, for Lance’s presence. “Someone was following me,” Keith whispers. “When I left work, someone was following me.”

Keith turns in time to see Lance’s eyes grow dark like the deep ocean, rage sending a trickle of ice down Keith’s spine. “What did they look like? Who were they? Did you know them?”

Keith shakes his head. “I didn’t see them.” Lance gently guides Keith from the car, keeping hold of his hand. “All I saw was a bit of movement. A flash of white.”

“Where? On your way home?”

“F-First in the alley by the restaurant. Then twice on the way.”

“So they followed you from work.” Keith nods, a tremor running through him. In this moment, the past and present are impossible to prise apart. Something in Lance’s expression shifts again, growing ever colder, a frigid flame crossing midnight blue. Lance says nothing, simply pulls him closer, guides him back to his home.

“You must have been scared,” Lance murmurs. Keith hesitates, steps faltering. He nods, terrified of his own vulnerability. “I’m so sorry, mi querido. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry I was late.” Lance is met with silence. Once they enter the apartment, Keith tries to slip away, Kosmo by his side, but Lance keeps hold of his hand. “Escúchame, mi querido. If I am late again, you need to wait inside for me, entiendes?”

“Why?” Keith isn’t used to be fussed over, doesn’t like being treated as though he’s helpless.

“An old enemy is after my sisters. And after me, by association. I thought you would be safe, but I may have been wrong.” Lance lets Keith’s fingers slip through, tension slipping up into Keith’s shoulders.

“Are you going to leave?” His voice is so small, dispersed like a whisper into the air.

“Do you want me to?” Lance asks, voice rebounding off the walls, his quiet murmur the loudest thing Keith has ever heard. He draws his arms tight around himself. “It would probably be safer.”

“N-No. I don’t. I...I like having you here.” Those arms tighten in tandem with Lance’s heart.

“Do you think I would leave you because you’re at risk? Do you think I care so little for you?” The idea stings like capsaicin in Lance’s eyes. “That I’m only happy if this is easy?”

It isn’t easy at all. Keith loses his restraint, tension enough to break the seal on the bottle he keeps inside himself. “I don’t know! I don’t know how you think! I don’t know how anybody thinks! I just guess, and then I fuck up, and then they get mad, and then they don’t tell me what I did and I fuck up again! Just like now and-” 

Lance cuts Keith off before he can fall to pieces again. “Okay!...Okay.” Lance steps forward, expensive shoes shuffling against the cheap flooring. He wraps his arms around Keith from behind, adding his own arms, his own strength to the man’s lonely self-embrace. He presses a kiss to the man’s spiced hair. Lance can feel the man shaking, one upset sitting on top of another, leaving the man even worse off than before.

“It’s okay...It’s okay. Alright. So if you can’t read me, I won’t make you. I don’t want to leave you, tonight, or any night in the foreseeable future. I care very deeply for you, and have for a long time. I am happy with you, and though I do want to make your life easier, I understand your need for self-reliance. In fact, I find it admirable. You don’t have to guess with me. If I want something from you, or I feel a certain way, I will tell you, and I want you to do the same if you can. Just brutally honest. Does that seem fair?” Keith nods feebly, exhausted in every way humanly possible. He’s trembling still, heartbeat throbbing against Lance’s chest. Lance tightens his grip, holding the man together.

“I hate seeing you like this. I don’t know what to do for you.” Lance sighs, letting their bodies melt into one another, holding on for a better moment.

“Tell me about your day. It’ll help.” Keith whispers, carefully working their arms together. Lance rests his chin then his cheek on Keith’s shoulder. “How did your meeting go?”

“Not a fun day. I was late to the meeting. Very late. That’s why I wasn’t there to pick you up. I had to do all my talking stuff about company morale, then I had to stay back and schmooze for ages and ages so everybody left happy. Then I had to stay back even later to discuss my perpetual tardiness with my father. It was fun. And it made me late picking you up. Mi pobre cariño.” Lance kisses his head again.

“What does that mean? Those words you use for me. Tell me about them.”

“‘Querido’ means ‘darling.’ Mi querido. My darling. ‘Cariño’ means ‘sweetheart.’ Eres mi querido. Eres mi cariño. I’ll probably come up with more for you as we go along. Get a collection going.” Lance kisses Keith’s cheek, takes in his scent. It grows more familiar with every day that passes.

“I don’t have any for you. I never thought about it before...what I might call someone if they were mine.”

“We’ve got time, cariño. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

Keith sighs, relaxes, lowers his arms. Lance releases him. He turns, midnight eyes dark, troubled, weary. “You look almost as tired as I am.”

“I doubt I’m anywhere near as tired as you are. But if that’s your way of inviting me for cuddles, I’m not about to say no. And I don’t think you will either.” Keith’s blush is merciless in its ferocity. Lance grins in triumph. Keith looks away, scowling at nothing in particular until a warm hand guides his gaze back to where it started, where it always seems to start. Lance presses a gentle kiss to his lips. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Except your entire family and anyone who asks.” Lance smiles, sheepish. 

“Yes, except that. My miraculous ability to keep a secret and my wanton need to brag about you are at constant war, I assure you.” Keith sighs, a tired, faint smile gleaming dimly in the infinite cosmos of his eyes. “Now come, mi querido. You’ve got a hard day tomorrow. You need your rest.”

Keith blushes as Lance takes his hand. It different, new, being cared about so openly. Lance fusses over him, worries about him, cares for him as best he can. His day has been as long, as exhausting as any other, terrifying. His week has been long, exhausting as any other, reopening old, still-fresh scars. Odd, he thinks, to be so well cared for by a man who’s greatest foe seems to be his own brain.

“What did your father say?”

“Nothing, really. Just reminded me of the importance of our image and the impressions we leave people with. I think it was a warning. He loves me. A lot. But sooner or later he’ll have to choose between our livelihood and legacy, or my place in the company.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you,” Keith whispers, stripping off his coat and server’s clothes, setting his knife on the bedside table. “I wish I could do more.”

“Don’t worry about it, Keith. It’s alright. I’m not your responsibility and I don’t want to be.”

“I know. But you try to look after me, and I know you need help…” Keith sighs, wishing that he could risk something more than his heart. His heart had been damaged when he’d begun this adventure. It hardly matters if it gets damaged a little more. So he tells himself.

“I appreciate it, mi querido. For now, just rest, si?” Lance kisses Keith’s cheek, pulls him into a delightful crush, spooning him up against his chest. Keith settles in, slipping his hand up underneath Lance’s twitching fingers. Lance’s restless digits lace with his, settling into the hold as his hyperactive body finds its rest. “For now, having you is enough. You give me focus. I’m more careful with myself and the decisions I make. I’m more observant of my own behavior. And having someone to come home to is nice too.”

Even as exhaustion grips his body, Keith’s mind continues churning, trying to find a way around the impossible. “I missed you last night.”

“I missed you too, cariño. I would have brought you with me, to be honest, but I didn’t think I could be ready in time to get you to work first.”

Keith snuggles in a little more, sad, delighted at the idea of being missed by the man that has rapidly become his own personal sun, the warmth in his bones.

The obvious hovers right in front of him, but Keith turns away, not ready to take a massive gamble on a tiny chance for a future that’s not just him in a tiny apartment, carving out whatever tiny living he can until life eventually tears him into tiny pieces.

 

“So, how are the boys doing?” Curtis asks, pouring yet another drink. It’s late on a Wednesday, and the bar is clearing out. A young couple is making out in the corner. As Shiro pours a martini, Ryan goes over and tells the two to break it up. They roll their eyes, leaving to find some other place to suck face.

“Not sure. Lance spent the night Monday. Eventually left yesterday night because he had to go home. Said he had to go to work today...Keith seems happy, though. Or as close to happy as he gets. Utterly dejected after Lance left.”

“Keith can be happy just like anybody else. He just doesn’t broadcast it to everyone around him.” Curtis gives him a crooked grin. “Not like you do. You just ooze emotions like my soggy socks.”

“ _You’re_ the one who decided to go out in the snow without shoes, not me. I don’t wanna hear about your socks.”

“The mail doesn’t get itself, Shiro!”

“You could have put on shoes.” The banter still comes easy. It took a couple of days, but thanks to Shiro’s efforts not to lose his grip on whatever future sits before him, Curtis has warmed to him again.

“They were upstairs. You know how I am about stairs.”

“You mean I know of your eternal battle for dominance over the stairs?”

“They can’t win,” Curtis growls, deadly serious.

“I’m worried, though,” Shiro admits, frown heavy at the corners of his mouth.

“About what?” Curtis begins wiping down the bar. It’s two in the morning, late, early enough for Curtis to close down. He’s turned a profit already this week.

“Lance absolutely hyperfixates. And right now, he’s hyperfixated on Keith. His feelings aren’t-”

“Oh for fucks sake!” Curtis threw his hands, throwing a glass over his shoulder in the process. Shiro jumped. A few patrons turned to see what Curtis’ ruckus was about. “You’ll find any reason not to go along with this, won’t you?!”

“I’m not wrong! He’s the only thing Keith will talk about these days! Lance is hyperfixated on the color blue, a handful of children’s TV shows, and Keith! What’s gonna happen when the kid gets bored-”

“Shiro, that’s not appropriate. In fact, I’m pretty sure that counts as ableism. Do you seriously think that Lance is just going to up and get bored of Keith? Because from what I can tell, Lance has been developing feelings for Keith very slowly for a very long time, yet chose not to act on those feelings, at least not consciously.”

“But-”

“No! I’m sorry. Really. I know you worry about Keith. I know he’s got his own...whatever...going on. But I don’t want to hear another ableist rant about what a non-functioning, insidious monster Lance is and how he’s going to get bored and break Keith’s heart. No more. Not another word.”

“You-”

“Choose your next words carefully, Shiro.”

“Do you really think I’m being ableist?”

“Yes, I do.” Shiro winces at Curtis’ matter-of-fact tone, laced with a finality not easy to hear. Those ice-blue eyes glittered keen, unsoftening. “Lance is a very intelligent, well-spoken, well-educated young man with a great deal of untapped potential. And I would argue that he cares very much for Keith. He certainly goes out of his way to spend time with Keith and bring him home after work. He came in and bought the poor guy lunch yesterday and the day before. With an extra vegetable. So, what I’m saying is...I care about you very much, and I am forever on your side...but you are wrong.”

“You’re blatantly disagreeing with me. How are you on my side?”

“Because I want what’s best for you and I want you to be happy. But don’t think for one second I won’t call you on your shit. I’m on your side, even though you’re not.” Curtis smiles, deeply fond, turns to clean up the fragments of glass glittering on the floor.

Shiro pours one last drink for Old Benny and Crotchety Joe, who are grumbling about the laziness of millenials. Again. Shiro barely hears, familiar with their complaints.

“It’s been a long time.” Curtis offers him only confusion. Shiro elaborates. “Since someone called me on my shit. Adam and I argued, but only if we actively disagreed on something in the moment. He always just let me stay on my bullshit. And Keith just humors me, probably because he doesn’t want a fight.”

“Well, I’m more than happy to do it. You’re being an ableist dick to your brother’s boyfriend. Also, you want Keith to be something that he is not, and is not capable of being.” Curtis approaches, starts poking him in the forehead. “Stop. Being. A Dick.”

“Okay! Okay, I get it!” Shiro’s brief grin fades. “Just...I don’t want him hurt, Curtis-”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. As I’ve said six million times, I know you worry about him. But he’s _fine_ , Shiro. He’s a grown-ass, honest, hardworking man. Thots have no power over him and even if they did, his wholesome, devoted boyfriend of totally-not-eight-months would destroy them. He’s doing _well_ , Shiro. Better than ever. So cut the shit.”

“How much have you had to drink?”

Curtis blushes, dark against dark skin. “Only a couple shots. Why?”

“Your language has taken a turn for the worse.”

“Well yours would to if you had to listen to yourself all day! Ah jeez, why did it have to be-” Curtis cut himself off with a sigh.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Shiro asks. He ignores the last frustrated query.

“Just cranky. Didn’t sleep well last night. And tispy, after two shots.”

“We need to work on your tolerance.”

“I do believe you’re trying to get me drunk.” Curtis smiles, amused, chin propped up on his fist. “Again.”

Ryan groans in disgust. “And I believe you two are super gross.”

“ _You’re_ super gross!” Curtis counters, whirling on his poor employee.

“Nuh-Uh!”

“Yuh-Huh!”

Curtis blows a raspberry, at which point Nadia runs out squealing nonsense about cooties, and Old Benny and Crotchety Joe are treated to three adults exchanging playground insults while a six-foot-tall Japanese man watches.

Once the ‘Your mama-” jokes begin, Shiro decides to intervene. “Alright, that’s enough now. Ryan, Nadia, clock out and go home. You’ve got studying to do. Curtis, sober up and help me finish your work so that I can go home.”

The younger pair waste no time in making their exit, happy to get home, to ignore the homework. On her way out, Nadia pulls Shiro down, leans up to kiss his cheek. “Buenas noches, Takashi. It’s nice having you here. You’ve been missed.”

Shiro smiles, returns her affection. “おやすみ。 I’m happy to be here.”

 

“You’re going to hate me for this,” Lance says, leaning over the table.

“Hi, McClain. Welcome to dinner. Want some pasta?” Iverson grumbles. Lance simply beams, pulls up a chair, close, so close he can comfortable put his arm around Keith’s slip waist, rest it on the graceful curve of his hip.

Keith is made of grace; he’s graceful when he walks, when he sleeps, when he rolls his hips as he straddles Lance in the dark. His face, his eyes, his smile, everything is graceful curves, sharp, somehow gentle all the same.

The Korean man gently slides his bowl away. “It’s okay, Keith. I won’t get sick sitting next to you while you eat.” Lance sighs. “Vero and Acxa are getting restless. They’re not supposed to go places by themselves.”

“Okay?” Keith’s gentle eyes slant downward with his confusion. “Is there something I can do to help?”

Lance’s mind blanks briefly as those dark eyes turn earnest. He loves this, Keith’s genuine desire to become a part of the life he’s so terrified of. He’s terrified of not belonging, of never finding a place to exist. Lance doesn’t know how to explain that Keith doesn’t have to try so hard, that he’s been saving a place for Keith for a very, very long time.

So instead he smiles, slow, sweet, kisses Keith forehead. Earlier on, Keith would have been hurt, found Lance’s behavior condescending. Now, he knows it’s a simple act of affection, a blessing, one for when Lance is especially endeared. So instead of reeling back, Keith leans into the little kiss, blush coloring his cheeks as he remembers their audience.

“Would you come somewhere with me Friday night?” Lance asks him quietly. “A club. I understand-”

“No offense, buddy, but I don’t think Keith likes clubs,” Hunk cuts in, looking at his coworker with concern. Hunk has expressed the position that their relationship is too one-sided, moving too fast. Keith sees Lance’s scowl, anticipates the “he can speak for himself” coming hot and fast, takes Lance’s hands from his face, holds them in his lap. The fingers dance over his skin, Keith smiling as he watches.

“Thank you, Hunk. I’ve got this...Why do you want me to come? You’ll be with your sisters and their friends, right? I don’t think you’ll have any fun with me there...” 

This wasn’t necessarily true. Keith has his methods.

“It’s...I doesn’t feel right to go there alone if I have you.” Keith’s expression is baffled, eyes large, tiny frown so perfect. The table sighs in mild exasperation. Lance simply kisses that tiny frown, an adventurous finger tucked beneath his delicate chin. “Ay, mi querido. Eres bonito pero inocente. Clubs are places where people go to hook up. I don’t want to go if you’re not with me. It feels wrong somehow.

“I know it’s not you’re thing. In fact, I believe it’s in the exact opposite direction of ‘your thing,’ but I’ll make it up to you. I promise I will-”

“I’ll go.” Keith doesn’t quite understand why Lance is making such fuss. True, clubs are, to his knowledge, crowded and loud, two of his least favorite qualities, but Lance wants him, is asking him to go, so he will. “You don’t have to make it up to me. If you want me there, then I’ll be there.”

“Muchas gracias, cariño. And I’ll be making it up to you whether I have to or not. We’ll do something nice. Te prometo.” Lance kisses him once more, brief, no less tender. Keith turns back to his dinner with a smile. 

He’s eating pasta, as always. Lance has found that Keith doesn’t have allergies, but he can’t handle a lot of rich food or red meat. So Hunk has always made him a simple pasta with sauce, carefully seasoned as to still be enjoyable. Today, however, thanks to Lance’s fussing, Hunk has made more of a primavera, with vegetables and some kind of non-red-meat sausage. Hunk had argued that Keith likes his pasta, that if he wanted something else, he would have asked. Lance had argued -rightly- that Keith never advocates for himself.

As it turned out, they had both been right. Keith had indeed been happy with simple pasta, but he’s also happy with the primavera, saying, “I like vegetables,” and little more. Their audience had found it odd; Lance had found it endearing. 

Hunk has admitted that the man seems a little brighter for it.

The general consensus is that both men seem a little brighter.

 

Initially, the club is about as terrible as Keith expected, if he’s entirely honest. He makes a valiant attempt not to be, to convince Lance that he’s perfectly happy to be here with a gaggle of young women. He tries to smile, convince everyone that he’s excited. They know he’s lying, but let it go. 

Lance lets him have his lie, doesn’t call him out on it. It’s a lie for everyone else, not for them, not for him. Instead, Lance stays close, willing to support his boyfriend as best he can, as Keith does for him.

Keith doesn’t mind meeting Acxa’s two friends, a young married couple. Zethrid is terrifying, her overbearing frame and personage filling every space, voice grinding like rocks in Keith’s ears. Her wife, Ezor is far better, tiny, sweet, energetic, her enthusiasm just barely an itch under Keith’s skin. Veronica seems genuinely happy to see him, which is nice. Acxa gives him a look, a cool greeting. Allura is warm, giving his hand a gentle squeeze in greeting, speaking softly. Keith likes Allura, likes all her stars.

“Thank you for coming out,” Allura murmurs, pulling him into a private embrace. “He has a reputation. Doesn’t want you to worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Keith murmurs. The woman draws away, pink stars still ever on her cheeks, in her eyes, in her hair, a warm, welcoming stretch of the cosmos, a haven in the void. Allura’s smile is benevolent, tender.

Initially, the club itself is by far the worst thing. From outside, Keith can hear the music, feel it vibrating the ground beneath his boots, in his chest, making his heart shiver, a slightly sick feeling oozing through his veins. The melted water collected in puddles just outside the building tremble in the ground, wishing to turn back into ice. 

Initially, inside is even worse, the floor sticky, clinging to the bottom of his shoes, reluctant to let him go. The smell of sweat, body odor, alcohol, permeates the air, assaulting his nose, his very psyche.

Initially, the lights are violent, like gunfire, flashes in every color but normal, rays flaring in the smoke or perhaps mist curling through the air. There are bodies writhing among the lights, grinding on each other, seeking stimulation, crowding around the bar, seeking mood modification. There’s a claustrophobia he can’t escape even as he tries, the very air pressing in on him like a thousand hands, like tongues, hot wet, seeking something he doesn’t want to give, taking it anyway.

It’s too loud to talk to anybody; Keith doesn’t know how to shout on command, so he simply draws into himself, shield what’s left of who he is until he can escape. He pulls himself close to Lance’s side like a cornered animal, seeking out that steadying warmth like a hunted animal seeking refuge from the hounds. The women run off to get drinks or join the swarm. Lance’s arm finds his waist, holding him close, guiding him toward a small lounge area away from the crowd.

Lance feels guilty, seeing Keith’s anxiety. It’s clear he’s not comfortable here, overstimulated. Keith likes quiet, likes his space. There’s no quiet here at all, no space, every inch of the club filled with _something_.

Keith sits right up against him on the couch. Lance’s lips find his temple, hand on Keith’s waist finds his shoulder, free hand finds Keith’s pale, slender digits. They sit like that for a while, Keith snuggled up against his side, playing calmly with his fingers. He seems slightly more relaxed, smiling down at their hands. 

Lance doesn’t mind sitting. He finds he’s capable of sitting with Keith, of focusing on him for long stretches of time. It’s a delightful discovery, a wonderful feeling to find something that can hold, captivate his attention like the constant heat, warming hands of the body next to him.

After a while, Veronica sends Lance a picture of the menu. He puts in his order, offers it to Keith. To his surprise, Keith requests three of the same drink. He raises an eyebrow, Keith smiles, nods, gently pushing the phone back into his hands.

Then, Keith _winks_. He leans over, lips right against Lance’s ear, and says, “We’ll have fun tonight.”

A shiver runs down Lance’s spine.

One hour, three drinks that may have actually been eight drinks later, Keith feels much better about being here. The lights are mesmerizing, the throb of the music in his chest exciting, the dance floor inviting. The claustrophobic crush of bodies intoxicating.

It’s exactly what he wanted, what he planned. He’ll regret it in the morning as the girls bring him drinks, as he presses his body close to Lance’s, as he forgets who he is in favor of someone who can show Lance a good time. He’s having fun, so long as liquid fun fizzes in his veins.

It’s good. Lance is having fun. He’s smiling, a wild summer, a reckless ride, a merciless heat that won’t let up, that promises this reprieve from responsibility will last forever. It feels so _good_ , pressed up against him, Lance’s lips on his neck, his fingers in Lance’s hair. Lance is hard, pressing against his back, sending a throbbing, burning heat pooling between Keith’s own legs.

Everyone will be surprised, alarmed, thrilled, awed by him, by how beautiful he can be, so long as he doesn’t have to be himself. It feels so _good_.

It feels good because he’s good, being so good for Lance, making sure Lance is doing well, is happy, is enjoying himself. Acxa won’t tell everyone what he did. Lance’s friends, his sisters, the people he calls family will like him. He won’t have to worry that they’ll all realize he’s not good enough. He can be good enough, so long as he doesn’t have to be himself.

He’s not sure when it happens, when Lance pulls him away, out of the hive mind, over to a dark corner. There are lips at his throat, warm hands under his shirt, tugging at his skin, pulling him into that riptide. Keith is panting, barely present in his own head, letting himself drown as his skin grows feverish.

That’s when it stops. Lance draws away ever so slightly, presses a kiss to his cheek, gently, kind, viciously chaste. Lance laces their fingers together, grabs their coats, tugs him out into the night.

“Lance? What are we doing out here? Let’s go back inside. We were having fun.”

Lance smiles, a little sad, a lot tender. Keith’s smile is so bright, the color in his cheeks less from the attention of other people, but from exertion, arousal, drink. “I thought you could use a bit of fresh air. You don’t seem yourself.”

For some reason, this is funny, causing Keith to giggle, breathless, dizzy. “Well, yeah. I’m drunk. It happens.” He shrugs, clearly giddy with alcohol. “I wanted to be able to have fun with you. I’m a fun drunk. That’s what Shiro’s friends used to say.”

Lance doesn’t care to unpack that.

“Oh, Keith.” Lance kisses that flushed cheek, more than endeared. Keith is an adorable drunk, even if his reasons are sad. “I was more than happy to sit in that corner with you. How many times must I tell you, cariño? You don’t have to try so hard.”

Keith sighs. “Can we go back inside now?”

“No, let’s stay out here awhile.”

“But I wanna go back inside!” Keith whines, tugging on Lance’s shirt. Lance throws an arm around him, squeezing, hugging Keith close, kissing his head. “Please, Lance?”

“Not for a little bit. You’re unbelievably cute, but I want my Keith back. That, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to drink anymore.” 

Keith is visibly wounded. “You don’t wanna keep dancing with me?” he slurs. “Oh. That’s okay.” Lance starts as Keith’s eyes begin to shimmer. 

“Oh, no, Keith. Don’t cry, mi querido. I had a ton of fun dancing with you, but I’m sober, you’re not, and I think you need a break.”

“Is it not good enough?” the shorter man sniffles. Lance sighes, pulling Keith into a bigger hug. Keith’s strong arms wrap around him. Lance’s twitching hands run over Keith’s frame, working warmth into his skin. He’s so flushed all over, Lance worries he might get too cold. The winter leeches warmth like a parasite.

“You’re always good enough, cariño. Too good, most of the time.” 

Keith starts to giggle, that cute little nose turning up to look at Lance. “You know...you’re pretty good too. You should show me when we get home.”

Lance bursts with laughter. “Only if you agree to sober up. You have to promise, mi querido. Promise.”

Keith giggles some more, Lance’s lips curling with a warm fondness that almost scares him with how intense it is. 

He’s not ready for this.

They’re still outside, sitting now, Keith crawling all over him, still giggling, still a bit flushed, but rapidly sobering. He’s thrown up twice, seems better for it. Lance finds himself amused, endeared more than anything else.

“Oh my goodness. Someone had about twelve too many, didn’t we?” Allura asks, eyes sparkling as Lance gently tugs Keith to his feet. The man has his arms around Lance in a second, fingers overlapping at the base of his spine. He lays his head on Lance’s chest. This part, Lance will miss, even as he’s ashamed to realize it. He’ll miss those huge, dark eyes he knows are peeking up at Allura, informing her that Lance is his, that Keith is delighted by it. He’ll miss this open honesty even as he stores away the evidence of Keith’s feelings for him.

Instead of mourning, Lance smiles, kisses his silly, drunk boyfriend on the head, guides him into the car. “Are you going to throw up again?”

“Mnh. No. I’m done,” Keith says, giggling again. He’s enchanted somewhere in his mind, enamored with the world and all its many wonders, enamored with himself, with the lack of inhibitions that clip his wings, hold him fast to the earth.

“Okay! Let’s go home, everyone!” The gaggle of girls pile into his and Veronica’s cars. It will be up to the siblings to get everyone home.

Lance doesn’t quite make it home. Instead he makes it to Keith’s place, gently coaxing the man through a glass of water and some toast, coaxing him into bed. Keith wants more, hands clinging, pulling at his clothes, but Lance gently removes his hands.

“Not tonight, mi querido. When you’re sober. And not hungover.” Keith looks upset until Lance pulls off his shirt and pants, nothing but his underwear to hide his form. “I decided a long time ago that this isn’t how I want to enjoy myself.”

“Should’ve had more to drink then,” Keith pouts.

“And who would have driven you home, mi querido? You wanna call Shiro as ask him to pick up five people?”

“We should have invited him and Curtis. But I didn’t think they’d go.” Keith sighs, snuggling in. “I like having you here. It’s so cold when you’re gone.”

“I like being here, cariño. Now go to sleep, si? You need to sleep this off.”

“Okay. おやすみ, Lance.”

“Buenas noches. Dulces sueños, mi querido.”

Keith falls into heavy sleep almost immediately, Lance’s wakefulness lingering as he listens to the man breathe. He thinks about Keith’s life, the shabby apartment he shares with his brother, the merciless hours he works, the low pay that is never enough, the deep insecurities he harbors.

This is more than good enough.

 

It’s fortunate that Keith doesn’t have to go to the mechanic’s Saturday morning. He tries not to make a fuss, despite what must be a pounding head, churning stomach. Lance runs his fingers through Keith’s hair.  “Mi pobre novio. ¿No te sientes bien?” Keith groans, keeping his eyes shut. “¿Vas a vomitar?”

Keith, his sweet, gentle Keith shakes his head. “No, I’ll be okay. So long as I don’t eat anything for a few hours. I recover quickly.”

Lance rolls over onto his side, observes Keith’s delicate face. He doesn’t look well, pallid, in pain. “Eres bonito, mi querido. Even when you look disgusting.” 

Keith opens his eyes, dark, baffled. “‘Bonito’ is  beautiful, right?” Lance nods. “You really think I’m beautiful?”

There’s hope there, in Keith’s face. It settles in the color rising into his cheeks, the shine creeping back into his monolid eyes. There’s something so vulnerable in that expression, as though Lance could crush him into oblivion or raise him to the heavens with a single word.

“Of course I do,” Lance murmurs. Keith’s color darkens further. “You’re so beautiful, Keith.”

“No one’s ever called me that before,” Keith whispers, gaze drifting away. “Not once.” Lance sighs, moves a tiny bit closer. “You’re beautiful too. The first time I saw you, I thought you were beautiful.”

“You really did like me all that time, didn’t you?” Keith’s cheeks couldn’t get any redder as he hid his face in the bedding. “I wish I’d known. I could have been happy sooner. My sweet...adorable...happy drunk...hardworking...honest...boyfriend Keith.” Lance punctuated his words with a kiss, each one coaxing the man in question a little further out of hiding. “But...Querido…”

“Hmm?” Those large eyes stare up at Lance, curiosity, wonderment shining like stars.

“I don’t want you to do that for me again, entiendo?”

“What do you mean?” Keith asks, blinking owlishly at him.

“Getting drunk because you think I won’t have any fun otherwise. If you want to do that, fine. But don’t do it for me, sí? I like you just as you are. No need to be anything else.”

“Are you sure?” It soft, careful, delicate.

“Absolutely. Rest a bit, sí? I’ll take good care of you until your feeling better.”

With Lance’s hands roaming over his agitated skin, smoothing away his rough edges, leaving something cleaner, more pure behind, Keith’s eyes cannot stay open. He simply smiles, sighs, snuggles deeper into the blankets, into Lance’s chest. “M‘kay.”

 

“So I thought about what you said,” Shiro begins, arranging glasses and mugs, more for something to do than anything else. He and Curtis together run a spotless, well-oiled machine.

“Which bit?” Curtis doesn’t look up from his laptop, smiling at the numbers before him.

“About me being an ableist douche bag toward Lance.”

“Ah. And?”

“You’re right. Every problem I have with him is because I don’t think he’s mentally capable of being a good boyfriend-”

“Try again, Takashi.”

“I think he can be a good boyfriend,” Shiro says, tone as though he is answering a fill-in-the-blank question on a test.

“Because…?”

“He genuinely cares about Keith.” Shiro runs fingers through his sliver-white hair. “He’d take him back to his home, pay off his debts, and let him live a life of luxury and idle time-wasting right now if he thought Keith would let him-”

“No, Keith would let him. If Lance asked. I think. Probably. Depends on what day it is. But Lance respects his wishes and independence.”

“So I really am an asshole.”

“You just love your little brother a whole lot, and feel guilty you couldn’t do better for him.”

“Thanks, Curtis.”

“Anytime.”

The doorbell rings. It’s still early for customers, but they’re both awake, dressed, here, so they might as well leave the door unlocked.

He’s tall, with tawny skin, long silver hair -Seriously, who needs hair that long?-, blue eyes. “Hello, are you open? Also, do you serve coffee?”

His voice is luxuriant, deep, upper-class. There’s something about his presence, something unsettling, powerful, eerily charming.

“Yes, and yes.” Curtis pulls one of the cups from under the bar, eyes fixed to his screen as Shiro grabs the karaf. “So long as you don’t mind I’m still in my pajamas. Fuck I need glasses. Getting a headache.”

“Fall and crack your head open on the stairs?” Shiro teases, pouring the annoyingly attractive stranger a cup of coffee. Curtis blesses him with a middle finger, Shiro’s grin only widening at the attention.

“Thank you very much,” the guest says, smiling, charming, insincere, calculated. “I’m afraid I haven’t seen many places this side of town that serve coffee-”

“There’s a Starbucks a block up the road. Coffee there’s always burnt though. At least this is fresh.”

“Oh, nonsense. There’s nothing better than a simple cup of coffee in a quiet place. Perfect for contemplation. Or observation.” Those intense eyes glitter like shards of glass, find Shiro over the rim of a cup. “Name’s Lotor. Lotor Procyon. I’m new in town.”

Curtis smiles. “Welcome. I’m Curtis, and this is Takashi.”

“Pleasure.” Lotor’s eyes don’t leave Shiro but for a few moments, gaze narrowed to a laser focus, calculating, almost predatory. “So, Takashi-”

“Shiro. Only Curtis calls me Takashi.” An exceptionally new development, but not one Shiro cares to mention as he meets that unwavering stare.

“Shiro. Do you have any family?”

“No, not really.” Curtis’ fingers pause on the keys for a brief second. The eyes immediately latch onto that second of silence, find its origin, find Shiro again.

“Interesting. You seem like a family man, oddly enough.”

“Yeah, well...I’d like one. Someday. But for now it’s just me and a handful of friends.”

“So you’re completely unattached?” Those eyes never wave, inspecting every pirce of Shiro for something he’s already found.

“Yeah. Got out of something seriously not too long ago, so I’m taking a break to work on myself.”

“Interesting. I’m in much the same boat myself...Well, thank you for the coffee. This has been fun. Perhaps I will frequent this place more often. It seems a pleasant spot.” There’s a threat in Lotor’s voice, Shiro thinks, a second pause of the keys punctuating the revelation, moving on, a hiccup in their little universe. “Have a wonderful day, gentlemen.”

The money is on the counter, the man is gone, leaving Shiro staring at a still full cup of coffee resting on the bar. “That was...interesting,” Curtis mutters.

“Yeah...You got a creep factor, right?”

“Oh yeah. Big time. That guy is definitely bad news.” Shiro shrugs, pouring out the coffee, cleaning the mug, putting it back. They get bad news in here every day, people down on their luck, no other way to get by, just trying to drink away their sins on the few dollars left in their pockets. There’s no reason to bat an eye.

Shiro bites his lip, summons his courage. “Wanna go somewhere for lunch? Together?”

“Wanna go on a lunch date?” Curtis looks up at him, beams, runs upstairs to put on actual clothes.

“Sure!” Shiro grins. There’s a wind in his sails, an anchor on deck just in case. The sun shines down, rays warming the mist in front of him.

 

Keith lays on Lance’s chest, sprawled indulgently upon a swath of summer skin. Lance runs a hand over the pale flesh, feeling the muscle ripple and dance beneath his fingers. The sensual flush has mostly receded, leaving an expanse of alabaster and marble, cool, clean, sweet. Dark brows contract ever so slightly, cherry blossom lips held in the smallest of frowns.

“What are you thinking about?” Lance asks, watching Keith lace and unlace their hands, golden brown weaving and unweaving with pale porcelain. Keith sighs.

“How much I’m going to miss you when you leave.”

Lance’s brows furrow. He frowns, takes his spare hand to Keith’s silken locks. “You’re the one that has to leave soon.”

“I meant when you leave me,” Keith whispers, staring sadly at their joined hands. Lance’s frown only deepens. “Shiro says that I should try to think of keeping you forever, rather than think of losing you, but I can’t help it.” 

“Why do I have to leave?” Lance asks, unable to feel anything but hurt. He can’t keep the whimper out of his voice. He wants to stay.

“Everyone leaves,” Keith whispers. He thinks of his mother, his father, an empty space, an indifferent gaze, a screen door closing in his face, leaving him with nothing but the desert for company. “And I get left behind.” Keith drops Lance’s hand, letting their fingers fall away.

“Well, I don’t plan on leaving. Sooner or later, you’ll have to believe that,” Lance pushes himself up into a sitting position, pulls Keith into his lap, cradles the smaller man against his chest, strokes his hair. Keith allows the behavior, snuggling against Lance like a sleepy child, warmth pulsing gently just beneath his skin. “You’ll believe me eventually.”

Keith just hums, not believing Lance, but happy to let Lance believe what he wants. He relishes the fingers nestled in his hair, the fingers dancing affectionately along his skin. He nestles his head in the crook of Lance’s neck and shoulder.

“Just you wait, one of these days, decades from now, we’ll be living at some wrinkle ranch and you’ll look at me with those big eyes of yours and say, ‘You’re still here.’ And you know what I’ll say?”

“What will you say?” Keith smiles, sad, unbelieving, willing to play along.

“I’ll say, ‘Of course I’m still here. I said I would be, remember?’ and then I’ll kiss you all over with my wrinkled old lips and you’ll be old and wrinkly too, but guess what?”

“What?” Lance is on the edge of babbling again, and Keith closes his eyes to listen. He’s grown to adore, to cling to every nonsensical word that passes those lips.

“We’ll be the hottest couple in the place. The favorites. We’ll own the place, just run the whole damn show. We’ll start a war between the checkers players and the bingo players, then sit back and watch the world burn. I’ll sit with you while you read one of your books. And people will say, ‘Oh you guys are so cute. How’d you two meet?’ And I’ll say, ‘Oh, well he used to serve my table like a million years ago and he just had the cutest little smile and he’d blush all innocent and sweet when I talked to him and I just knew I needed to sully him from top to bottom. So I did. And here we are.’ And they’ll laugh and be uncomfortable because they won’t know whether I’m telling the truth but you’ll prove it to them.” 

Keith is grinning, laughing softly as Lance wraps a blanket around their naked forms. He feels the warmth rise into his cheeks, just like Lance was talking about, and nuzzles against his lover’s neck, brushing his warmth over the man’s sunlit skin.

“And how’s that, hmm? How will I prove it?”

“Just like this,” Lance whispers, running a thumb over Keith’s rosy cheekbone, coaxing Keith’s face up to his. Lance smiles. It’s a soft smile, lips parted only slightly, teeth sparkling, the sun in every crack and crevice. It’s a perfect face, a face Keith adores, every freckle in flawless disorder, framed by ears just this side of too large, soft brown hair disguised as a collection of unruly cowlicks. “This cute little blush-” Lance runs a thumb over Keith’s bottom lip. “-this sweet, shy, little smile, pretty nose, those damn eyes that light up the night. They’ll look at you, even if it’s a thousand years from now, and they’ll know. They’ll get it.”

“Get what?” Keith whispered.

“Why you’re perfect. Why I needed you. An intimation of immortality, something time cannot ravage.” Lance gently presses his lips against Keith’s, doing his best to convey the feelings he’s inches, always moments away from being ready to admit. Keith sighs into the contact, more than happy to relish the sweetness of the kiss. He feels the words they haven’t yet spoken, tastes them on his tongue, feels them tangle in his hair, leave warm trails on his skin.

It’s too soon, really. It’s eight months coming.

“I’ll tell them about you too,” Keith whispers when they pull away, deciding to play along, play pretend. Lance chuckles, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“What will you tell them?” Lance asks in thrilled whisper. Keith can hear the smile in his words, feels it slip into his ears and onto his own face.

“I’ll tell them about your hands,” Keith says, lifting one to his face, pressing a kiss to each fingertip in turn. “I’ll tell them about how I used to watch them dance across the tabletop and wonder what they’d feel like on my skin, in my hair, against my lips. How I used to imagine them playing the piano, gardening, knitting. How to me, they could make even the most mundane thing seem wonderful. I’ll tell them that they were everything I dreamed they would be and more.” Keith presses his lips to Lance’s palm, his wrist, gently squeezing the delicate bones, paying special attention to that one spot he knows Lance likes. “I’ll tell them these hands are perfect.”

Keith’s learned this body, Lance’s body. He knows what this body likes, where it likes to be touched, where it hurts, where it’s tight, where it’s loose. He knows the mole on the left shoulder, that little freckle at the corner of one eye, the one right on the tip of that delicate nose. He knows those legs, has traversed their length many times. He knows those eyes, the way they sparkle when they’re playful, the way they smoulder when they make love, the way they shine like summer when Lance is happy. And of course, Keith has those hands memorized, has treasured them in his mind since the first time he laid eyes on them.

Keith lays that hand against his cheek, nuzzles into it, and Lance finds there’s a lump in his throat. Most people aren’t fond of his hands; they’re indifferent at best, intolerant or even loathing at worst. Lance understands that; he always has. There are things about himself he can’t control. He can’t always keep a walking pace. He can’t always maintain a focused narrative, lets his thoughts run away with him. He gets distracted easily, forgets to eat. 

His hands have always been the worst. They don’t stop moving, except when he’s asleep. Sometimes, he’s been told, not even then. He tries to make them stop; he can’t. He can’t. People ask him what he means, ask him to explain; it’s not something he can articulate. Lance’s hands just _can’t_ . _stop. moving._

Seeing Keith sitting in his lap, cradling his hands, his unruly, his disobedient, his -some would say- abhorrent hands, changes something, reorders Lance’s world. A precious something that lay just out of alignment finally shifts into place and the cogs in his fragile, gold leaf and tin foil heart begin to turn. A door Lance hadn’t even known he had is opened, creating a new, unknown space, empty yet full of potential, full of promises he’s already made, that he hadn’t known he was making.

Lance shifts them, and quite suddenly Keith finds himself beneath the taller man. Lance cocks his head ever so slightly, gazing down at Keith in quiet contemplation. A trembling hand traces down Keith’s cheek, along his jaw, down his throat, slides over his form. Keith stares into those deep blue eyes, sees something in them he can’t recognize. It’s not necessarily a bad something; it’s like nothing Keith has ever seen before, not for him, never for him.

“Lance?” he whispers, covering that exploratory hand with his own but not hindering it’s progress. A pair of thin lips find his own; a tongue slides over his. Keith’s mouth opens, obliging but frightened, and he’s drowning, drowning, drowning. He’s drowning in Lance, in his kiss, his weight, in his hands. Lance’s hands are in his hair, run the length of his body. Keith gives a moan, or maybe a whimper; he’s not sure. His own hands work their way into those soft brown strands. One slides down, blunt fingernails tugging at the supple flesh between Lance’s shoulder blades. His hips roll up, unable to do anything else with that divine, soul-saving weight pressed against him. Then Lance gone, they’re separated, the contact is removed, and an entirely different kind of whimper escapes Keith’s lips.

It’s a cry, more than anything else, a lamentation at the suggestion they might part. Keith desperately wants this to last, wants the taste, the smell, the feel, the thought of Lance to be the last thing his body ever knows, ever remembers. Lance’s imprint, his impression, his very existence is sacrosanct in every form he takes. Keith has never been a devout man, more bitter at the idea of a god than anything else, but finds devotion here, amid a sea of blue, a summer sky, a feeling as sweet as brown sugar and cinnamon skin.

Lance gently caresses Keith’s face, staring at him. “I love you, do you know that? I love you.” Lance’s fingers find the back of Keith’s neck, and Keith obediently rises, pressing his forehead against his lover’s, hooking a leg over Lance’s body for leverage. “I love you more than breathing, more than life.” Lance presses a sweet kiss to his lips and stares into Keith’s wide eyes. Keith stares into the oceanic abyss, transfixed, terrified, longing. “Can I stay?”

Keith swallows, body trembling. Something stings at the corners of his eyes, but he pushes it away. He holds Lance against him, clings to the sweet life above him, returns to his rightful place in the crook of Lance’s neck. “As long as you want,” he chokes. “Stay as long as you want.”

“You might be late for work today,” Lance murmurs, presses a suckling kiss to the underside of Keith’s jaw. Keith wraps his legs around Lance’s body, moaning at the kiss. “Please? I’ll make it up to you.” Lance runs a hand down Keith’s side, his hip, his thigh, coaxes his leg further up Lance’s torso. “Te necesito. Necesito hacerte el amor.”

Keith’s hands find Lance’s hair, cradle the man against his flesh. Lance’s teeth latch onto his collarbone; he gasps; fingers tighten on the soft brown strands. Once again, his body betrays him. “You-you’ll have to let go of me if you want me to call in.”

“I’ll never let you go,” Lance murmurs, draws away just enough for Keith to reach his phone. He lays his head on Keith’s chest, unable to bear the loss of contact. “Not ever.”

As Keith bails on Iverson for the first time since he was employed at half past sixteen, as Lance’s body tangles with his, gentle, sweet, tender, he finds himself on the verge of belief, on the verge of devotion.

“I love you, Lance. More than breathing.”

 

Shiro is just preparing to leave when he hears words coming from Keith’s room. He’s immediately on edge. Keith should be at work. Is Lance here? Who is he with? Shiro will kill him. It’s best not to jump to conclusions. He really will kill him.

They’re both there, Keith and Lance. They’re whispering softly, fingers tracing skin, tracing words. They’re curled up together on the bed, skin, faces still flushed, exposed from the waist up. Lance laces fingers in Keith’s hair, holding him close, Keith going soft, pliant, bending to the man’s whim.

It’s an odd thought, but Shiro never took Keith as one to melt. He never seemed to type to willingly bend to anyone. Yet he curls into Lance McClain like he was made to fit there. In this moment, this unreasonable moment, Shiro is afraid. He is afraid; he so very alone.

“Why the hell are you not at work?” he demands, not in the state of mind to be rational; he doesn’t want to be reasonable. He wants to be angry.

Keith looks up, generally unconcerned. “Because I don’t need to be.”

“The hell do you mean you don’t need to be? Bills and student loans don’t pay themselves!”

Keith bristles, rising to his brother’s anger. “Well, I’m not doing everything on my own anymore, so I can afford an evening off, can’t I?”

“What? You should be-” Every piece of Shiro freezes. Keith bristles. Lance whispers Keith’s name, tries to soothe him.

“You disappeared. You just lay there on the couch and disappeared for eight months. So why can’t I do the same for eight hours? Why can’t I be that selfish for once?!”

“Keith!” Lance scolds, openly disapproving now. 

Keith pales. Shiro turns, leaves, walks out. He doesn’t want to be here anymore. He’s forgotten how to move.

Even if he remembered, he doesn’t make it far before his flight is interrupted by an impact from behind.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was horrible. I’m sorry.” A pair of arms wrap around his middle, reminding Shiro of a time long ago, hauntingly recent, when Keith was torn away from him, over and over. He remembers the thin, impenetrable glass that separated them for so long. “I just missed you so much. I’m so sorry.”

Shiro sighs, turns. His brother looks so small, though maybe because he’s in nothing but sweatpants even as snow is coming down.

“I know I should have done more and that it was hard for you, but-”

“You lost him. I know you still miss him. I miss him too.” Shiro manages not to break at that. “I know he and I didn’t always get along, but...He was family to me too.”

Keith doesn’t mean to be bitter, Shiro realizes. He just wants something for himself for once. He’s found Lance. Lance needs to become Shiro’s family, too. Shiro sighs, returns Keith’s embrace. “I know. I know.”

“Shiro?”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

“Shiro?”

“I’m scared.”

“Why?” Keith shivers at the query, takes a deep breath.

“I love him, Shiro. So much.”

“Yeah...That’s...Terrifying. It is. But it’ll be okay. I promise. It gets less scary later.”

“I know it's too soon but...He’s so nice to me, Shiro. He’s so good.” Shiro grins. He can work with that. Grieving is an ongoing process that never truly ends, but joy is something singular, existing in places, things, moments of time. Joy is transient, all the more precious for it.

“Good how, exactly? Must’ve been really good for you to skip work over it-” Keith hits him in the stomach, not hard enough to do damage, but hard enough to smart. "Oof!"

“Jerk! I was trying to be vulnerable!”

“What? I’m just saying-”

“I can’t believe I tell you anything!”

“Oh yeah?” Shiro lifts Keith in a fireman’s carry, carrying him kicking, griping, laughing up the stairs. “Tell me more about how ‘good’ Lance is.”

“Shiro! Agh! あなたは私の非の好きな弟です！”

“Your Japanese is rusty. Unlike Lance’s goodness!”

“チンコを食べる！”

“Mnh. I don’t think I’m there yet. Am coming off a lunch date, though.”

Lance is out in the hall when they get back, clearly on his way out to look for them. “All patched up?” he asks, one brow arched. Keith nods, grinning from his place on Shiro’s shoulder.

“Put me down so I don’t get whacked on the doorframe. I don’t hide bruises like Curtis does.” 

Shiro sets him down with care, ruffling Keith’s hair. One of the best things about having Keith for a brother is that fights never last. Neither of them enjoy arguing, would rather resolve it at once. Adam was a master of the silent treatment, required distance for a time before resolution could be achieved. Keith would rather just let go, just move on, just keep moving. Shiro is happy to do the same.

Keith takes Lance’s hands, smiling down at those tap-tapping fingers. “I’m sorry, Lance. I was being a dick.”

Lance smiles, kissing him on the lips. “That’s okay, mi querido. I’ve been a dick to each and every one of my siblings. It happens sometimes.” Shiro watches as Lance rests his forehead against Keith’s, as Keith’s eyes close. “Is everything okay, now? Are we okay?”

Keith nods, Lance gently guiding him into an embrace. Shiro smiles. He’s warming to the idea that Lance might be a permanent figure in their lives.

“Hey, Shiro,” Lance says slyly. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks if you can give Curtis a hickey bad enough we can see it.”

“Deal. I’m gonna buy so much food. Or maybe a set of folding chairs.”

Shiro takes a few hours off. Dinner at home on the couch with Keith and Lance is a nice change of pace, his brother sitting so close to Lance he’s practically in the man’s lap. Lance’s hands are playing with his silverware, taking bites as Keith does.

It’s odd, but Shiro’s never heard Keith say so many words. Lance babbles, asks Keith questions. Keith responds, color staining his cheeks from the constant attention, sometimes going into detail about hobbies or interests he used to have, hopes to one day pick up again.

As dinner is finished, and Shiro walks back to the bar to resume his shift, he’s smiling. A single spat, unspoken words beneath the spoken, a pair of hands that never seem to fully part swim through his mind.

He washes his hands at the sink behind the bar, gives Curtis’ a squeeze. “I should sleep here tonight.”

Curtis studies him for a minute, quiet, unsure, blue eyes contemplative, warm. That smile that never fully fades away finds his lips again. “I’d be happy to have you.”

Shiro is grateful Keith isn’t here to get some revenge. Thank the stars Lance is so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming up next: Choices are made, boundaries are tested, Keith gets a request, and Shiro genuinely warms up to Lance!!! What the hell am I talking about? How does any of this happen? Stick around to find out! <3<3<3

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks for reading this! You guys are my inspiration, so be sure to tell me what you think and what you want to see!


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